


With Fate as Malleable as Clay

by tacosandflowers



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Roommates, Sharing a Bed, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:25:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5312717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacosandflowers/pseuds/tacosandflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke just laughs and smiles at Bellamy before turning back to Raven. “Things are good. I finally got him to leave his room for something other than food.”</p>
<p>“You did not,” Raven protests. “What did you use, a trap baited with NPR podcasts?”</p>
<p>Clarke dissolves into laughter again while Bellamy rolls his eyes.</p>
<p>“I can access NPR podcasts in my room, believe it or not,” he grumbles over his beer. These two are a dangerous combo.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Clarke is an art restorer and Bellamy is a security guard at the Ark Museum of Art, and they become roommates out of convenience. Bellamy thinks they won’t have much in common, being from opposite sides of the tracks, but Clarke turns out to be different than he expected. When a painting gets stolen and they team up to solve the crime, a blossoming friendship could turn into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Fate as Malleable as Clay

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to write this story after reading a novel about a Renaissance painting, and subsequently dove into researching the world of art conservation. I have undoubtedly made mistakes about the details surrounding this line of work, as well museum operations in general, and art history, and mythology, and Brazilian Jiu-jitsu, among other things. Basically what I’m saying is, grant me some artistic liberties. All mistakes are mine. Title from Joanna Newsom. This story involves a real painting that you may want to see, and you can find it here: http://www.nga.gov/content/ngaweb/Collection/art-object-page.1223.html

Bellamy Blake has been working as a security guard at the Ark Museum of Art since he was nineteen years old, so by the time he’s in his late-20s he knows the name and face of everyone who works there, from the janitorial staff through the senior curators and the museum director himself. Which means he notices when an attractive blonde starts showing up for work in the Conservation and Scientific Research department, dressed primly and always with a serious look on her face.

 

He knows her name—Clarke Griffin—because it’s part of his job to know her name, but he doesn’t think much about her beyond that, because she works in conservation, and the people in conservation do not mix with the people in security. He doesn’t think much about her, that is, until about three months after Clarke first shows up. It happens one night when his friend Raven Reyes, who has nothing to do with the museum, suggests that he and Clarke move in together.

 

“What?” he asks in disbelief, starting at Raven over a beer at their local dive bar. “What do you mean I should move in with Clarke Griffin? How do you even know Clarke Griffin? In what universe would Clarke Griffin and I ever be roommates?”

 

“So many questions. And it’s a funny story, actually,” Raven says. “Remember when I found out Finn was cheating on me when he was away at college? Turns out he was cheating with Clarke.”

 

Bellamy’s eyebrows rise even higher. “This makes even less sense than I thought it did.”

 

“Bear with me,” Raven replies. “Clarke had no idea I existed until I showed up one weekend to surprise Finn. All hell kinda broke loose after that, but a while later Clarke and I reconnected and actually became friends. And now she lives here, and she needs a roommate, and I’m just trying to help a buddy out. Two buddies, actually, since you also need a place to live. You move in together, everybody wins, I’m the hero.”

 

Bellamy shakes his head as Raven smirks, clearly pleased with her idea.

 

“You know I’ve never actually spoken to Clarke, right?” Bellamy asks. “We’re complete strangers who just happen to work at the same place.”

 

“Who cares?” Raven says. “People find strangers to be their roommates on Craigslist all the time.”

 

“Yeah, and look how well most of those arrangements turn out,” Bellamy grumbles, rolling his eyes.

 

“Stop coming up with excuses,” Raven says. “Octavia has her own place now and you need cheaper rent. Clarke has a room to rent for pretty cheap. Don’t overthink this.”

 

Bellamy overthinks it, because he’s Bellamy. That’s what he does. He knows how to live with a female because he lived with his sister for the first twenty two years of her life, but he’s not sure what it would be like living with a female he’s not related to. He’s also not sure what it would be like living with someone who works at the same place as him.

 

But he does need cheaper rent, and after he thinks over Raven’s proposal and finds he really can’t come up with a decent excuse to not at least meet Clarke and discuss the idea, he caves.

 

It turns out he’s not a total stranger to Clarke.

 

“I’ve seen you around the museum,” she says over a glass of wine at the dive bar. When she’d ordered wine, he’d panicked momentarily that she might judge him for suggesting they meet at a place that only serves wine from a box, and then panicked more about the fact that he was considering moving in with someone who orders wine at a dive bar.

 

“Really?” he asks across his pint glass, taking a sip to soothe his nerves.

 

She looks bemused at his blatant confusion. “You’re always on duty in the Renaissance galleries. We’ve made eye contact on multiple occasions.”

 

It’s true, they have. But Bellamy is used to being invisible to museum higher-ups, so he’d just assumed he was invisible to Clarke, too.

 

“You still must have been surprised when Raven suggested this,” he says once he gets a grip.

 

Clarke shrugs, her hair glinting in the dim bar lighting as the soft folds of her shirt flow with the movement. “Not really,” she says. “I asked her if she knew of anyone looking for a place, and when she mentioned you I was pretty relieved, actually. I’d rather not live with a complete stranger. Craigslist is a _minefield_ of potential nightmare roommates.”

 

“You’re telling me,” he replies.

 

“It’s not like we have to be best friends or anything,” Clarke says. “We’d share the kitchen, but my room has an en suite bathroom so you’d have the other bathroom all to yourself. And the living area is pretty big. There’s also an office room that has space for another desk, if you want to share that. We wouldn’t be crowded, I don’t think.”

 

They arrange for Bellamy to come over and look at the place, and when he does, he’s impressed, and also very curious to know how someone as young as Clarke came to be in possession of a three-bedroom home as nice as this one. It’s not new, but it’s in good condition, and if Bellamy is being honest it makes him feel slightly inadequate.

 

“I came into some money,” Clarke explains when he asks her, and she grimaces slightly, indicating that if she’s rich, at least she’s not a completely shitty rich person, which is a relief to him. “My mom’s family… well, she’s on the museum board, you’ve probably seen her before. Abby Griffin?”

 

Bellamy nods slowly as the puzzle pieces clicks together. Abby Griffin is one of the people to whom he’s invisible, but he knows her face from when she comes in for meetings with the museum director, Marcus Kane.

 

“I didn’t get my job because of her,” Clarke says, suddenly defensive.

 

“I… didn’t say you did?” Bellamy replies.

 

“I know,” Clarke sighs. “But some people think I did, and I hate that. I went to school in art conservation and worked my ass of to get this position. Sorry, I just don’t know how much you’ve heard about me. Some of the junior curators are shit-talkers.”

 

Bellamy laughs, appreciating her candor. And also appreciating the way she sounds when she curses. The person beneath the buttoned-up façade appears to be different than who he expected. “Well the junior curators don’t talk to the security guards, so I haven’t heard anything. And I’m sure you worked hard to get where you are.”

 

Clarke blinks, as if she’s surprised by his response. “Thanks. I did. And when I got the job and moved here, I decided to invest some of my inheritance from my grandfather into real estate.”

 

Bellamy looks around at the living room, where they’re currently standing. “Wise investment, it seems to me.”

 

Clarke nods. “Unfortunately for me, the entry-level salary for a conservator gets stretched pretty tight when it comes to paying the mortgage every month. I originally thought I would have someone else living with me who would help cover it, but that, uh, fell through. And here we are.”

 

Bellamy is intrigued by this previous arrangement that fell through, but now doesn’t seem like the time to ask, so he gets back to business. “I’m definitely interested in the room, if you want to talk details.”

 

Clarke smiles widely, her entire face lighting up, and Bellamy feels himself smiling back, like its contagious. She has an energy about her that’s inexplicable, and as many unknowns as there are involved in this arrangement, at the very least he knows he likes that energy, and would feel good being around it more.

 

They settle the details and shake on it, and then they meet up with Raven, who smirks at both of them about her success.

 

Bellamy moves in three weeks later with the help of Clarke and his sister, Octavia, as well as Raven, who can’t do any heavy lifting on account of a leg injury she incurred while in the Army, but who definitely provides direction in the form of shouting at everyone else about how to best divide their efforts.

 

It’s Octavia’s first time meeting Clarke, and the two seem to get along well in that way girls do when they first meet each other. However, after they’re finished moving boxes and bags, she grabs Bellamy and yanks him into his new room at her earliest convenience.

 

“Okay, I knew you were moving in with a girl, but you didn’t tell me you were moving in with _total babe_. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asks, getting in his face.

 

“Of course I know what I’m doing,” he replies defensively. “I’m allowed to move in with an objectively attractive person.”

 

 “’Objectively attractive,’” Octavia scoffs. “Seriously? Are you a walking dictionary? She’s a babe and you know it. You’re such a dork.”

 

“You’re such a weirdo,” he retorts. “I don’t get why this is an issue. Who cares what Clarke looks like?”

 

Octavia’s shoulders drop as she looks at him resignedly. “I don’t know, Bell, I’m just protective of you. I feel terrible about moving out and forcing you to find a new place.”

 

“And I’ve told you that you have nothing to feel bad about. It’s good you’re spreading your wings a bit, you know I support you.”

 

“Ha! I wish I could quote you to yourself three months ago when I first told you the plan.”

 

“Hey, give me credit for coming around.”

 

Octavia rolls her eyes. “I guess. Okay, so I won’t feel bad. But I know you’re secretly holding in a world of worry about me being on my own, so I’m allowed to worry about you, too.”

 

“I still don’t understand why you’re worried.”

 

Octavia makes an inscrutable face. “I’m not sure how to explain it. Just, be careful, okay?”

 

“Whatever,” he replies, ruffling her hair, which earns him a punch in the arm.

 

Bellamy thinks Octavia is overreacting, but she’s not wrong about Clarke being beautiful. He’s thought that since he first laid eyes on her at the museum, and he’s not going to stop thinking that just because he lives with her. What he can do is make it very clear to himself that while he finds her attractive, she’s also his roommate, meaning she’s off limits when it comes to anything beyond objective appreciation of her attractiveness. What’s so hard about that?

 

They get to know each other slowly at first, in the way that roommates do. Clarke was right that they aren’t too crowded, especially not having to share a bathroom. They work at the same place, but their schedules are different, so they leave and return to the house at different times. All told, they don’t actually see that much of each other at first.

 

This is also because Bellamy spends a lot of time in his room, setting things up (not that he has much stuff) and then just reading, because he’s too nervous to start hanging out in the living room much. He knows it’s dumb, but he doesn’t willingly interact with new people very often and until he’s settled in a bit more, he’s comfortable being his loner self.

 

The place they run into each other the most is the kitchen. As a guard, Bellamy has to be at the museum early to get things opened up, whereas Clarke’s day doesn’t start until later since the conservation department is open during typical office hours. On their first weekday of living together, Bellamy is fully dressed in his uniform and pouring himself a cup of coffee to go when Clarke shuffles into the kitchen, her hair a tangled blonde halo around her head, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt and a sleepy expression on her face.

 

“Is there more of that?” she asks, nodding at his cup.

 

Bellamy looks guiltily at the near-empty French press on the counter. “Not really, sorry. I didn’t know you would be awake before I left so I just made enough for myself.”

 

Clarke shrugs and heads for the press. “That’s okay, I can make another pot.”

 

Bellamy stands awkwardly as she elbows him aside so she can reach for the coffee beans. He’s still pretty stunned by the sight of Clarke in a disheveled state, since he’s used to seeing her in a professional context where she’s always put together.

 

“Is this usually when you go to work in the mornings?” she asks, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

 

“Yeah,” he replies.

 

“This is when I usually get up, so if you don’t mind making a full pot, I’ll totally drink whatever is left. And then I’ll probably make more because I drink a lot of coffee.”

 

Bellamy feels a smile stretch across his face—which is weird for him, he feels like he’s letting his guard down a bit—and he nods. “Sure, I can do that.”

 

In the evenings, it quickly becomes apparent that Bellamy knows his way around a kitchen, and that Clarke is much less culinarily inclined. After cooking for both himself and his sister for a long time, Bellamy is pretty good at throwing together meals on a budget, and he’s happy that Clarke’s kitchen has good counter space so he has room to work.

 

After three nights of Clarke coming home with take-out while he’s putting the finishing touches on his dinner, Bellamy caves and says something.

 

“You know, if you ever wanted to, um, share dinner, I’m used to cooking for two people.”

 

Clarke looks up in surprise from her pad thai.

 

“You don’t have to,” he says quickly, kind of embarrassed. “But it’s easy for me to make extra if you ever do want to.”

 

Clarke looks down at her food and then back up at him. “That would be amazing, actually.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m not much of a cook, obviously. If you’re cool with it, I’ll totally pitch in on groceries.”

 

They start eating together several nights a week after that. Bellamy finds he likes cooking for another person again, having felt a bit lonely making meals for one after Octavia moved out. He didn’t expect Clarke Griffin to be the kind of person who needed taking care of in any way, but feeding her dinner satisfies an inherent need of his to make sure the people in his world are okay. Because Clarke is a part of his world now.

 

It’s during these dinners that they start getting to know each other a bit better. Clarke usually gets home when Bellamy is in the middle of cooking, and she’ll change out of her work clothes into something more comfortable—she seems to have an endless supple of leggings and sweatshirts—and come hang out while he finishes the meal.

 

He’s quiet at first, because he’s not used to getting to know new people. He has Octavia and his friends he’s had forever, why would he want to deal with anyone else? But Clarke is determined to get to know him more, so she kindly tolerates his quietness and seems to figure out exactly how to phrase her questions so she’s never pushing him for too much.

 

He learns that she was born and raised in Ark, that she went out of state for college and then moved to England to study art conservation after her dad died. She’d been nervous about moving back to Ark after such a long time away, but the job at the museum was exactly what she was looking for, and now that she’s been back for a few months she’s happy she made the move.

 

He also learns that when Clarke had bought the place, she’d been planning to live here with her (now ex-) girlfriend who was supposed to move with her from England but bailed on her last minute. Clarke had moved first and was expecting Lexa to join her after a month, but Lexa never came. Hence the need for a roommate.

 

He slowly tells her about his own history in Ark. He’d grown up on the opposite side of town, the one with a lot less money, and was on his own with Octavia from the time their mom died when he was nineteen. He’s worked at the museum for almost a decade, and worked additional part-time jobs to help put his sister through college, but is back to just working at the museum now that she’s graduated.

 

“It must be nice to have more free time,” Clarke says one night over dinner when he’s talking about Octavia being finished with school.

 

“It’s nice not having to work nights,” he replies, “but I’m used to being busy all the time, so that’s an adjustment.”

 

Clarke looks at him thoughtfully, considering her words. “This might seem like a weird question, but what do you do at night?”

 

 “Read, mostly,” he says. “When I’m here, I mean. Sometimes I go over to my friend Miller’s place to play video games.”

 

“Sorry to ask, it’s just, you’re always in your room. If you wanted to read out here you totally could. It’s your space too.”

 

“Thanks,” he says. “I guess I’ve just been getting used to being in a new place.”

 

“I get it. But the recliner is really comfortable for reading.”

 

“I’ll have to give it a try,” he says, thinking it’s probably not a bad idea to come out of his room a little more.

 

After that, Bellamy starts spending more time in the living room in the evenings. Clarke’s right, the recliner is really comfortable. Sometimes Clarke is out there too, sketching in a sketchbook or watching TV, but she also goes out some evenings. She has an active social life even though she’s only been back in town for a few months, which doesn’t surprise him given her outgoing personality.

 

She invites him along sometimes, and he joins if she’s meeting up with Raven, because he already knows Raven and would typically be spending time with her anyway. They usually go for a few drinks at the dive bar, and Bellamy finds the dynamic between the two women quite fascinating. They’d met through such negative circumstances, but seem to have formed a strong bond.

 

“So, how’s life with this grump?” Raven asks Clarke one night, jutting her thumb in Bellamy’s direction.

 

“Aw, he’s not so bad,” Clarke says.

 

“Have you _met_  your roommate?” Raven continues.

 

Clarke just laughs and smiles at Bellamy before turning back to Raven. “Things are good. I finally got him to leave his room for something other than food.”

 

“You did not,” Raven protests. “What did you use, a trap baited with NPR podcasts?”

 

Clarke dissolves into laughter again while Bellamy rolls his eyes.

 

“I can access NPR podcasts in my room, believe it or not,” he grumbles over his beer. These two are a dangerous combo.

 

“You should sit down with Octavia and get some advice,” Raven says. “She has a lifetime of experience living with Bellamy Blake, she could give you some pointers.”

 

“It’s pretty easy so far,” Clarke says, “but I’d like that. We should have her over for dinner.”

 

“She hasn’t been over yet?” Raven asks.

 

“She’s really busy,” Bellamy says. “And she’s been giving me ‘space’ or something, she thinks I need it.”

 

Raven shakes her head. “I never would have expected this, but sometimes I feel like she’s trying to be the older sibling and acting like you’re the one leaving the nest.”

 

Bellamy takes a long sip of his beer before he continues. “Octavia has a weird guilt complex about moving out,” he explains. “Which is ridiculous, because it’s not like we were going to live together forever, and she’s an adult now.”

 

“Yeah, but… you raised her, you know?” Raven says, her voice surprisingly tender. “It’s a big change for both of you. She just wants you to be happy.”

 

“Yeah, whatever,” Bellamy says, even though Raven is right.

 

“You miss her,” Clarke says, and he turns to find a look on her face he hasn’t seen before. It’s like she’s reading straight through the front he’s putting up. “We’re having her over.”

 

Clarke sticks to her word, and Octavia joins them for dinner a few nights later, bearing a bottle of wine and a huge hug for Bellamy. She seems a bit nervous around Clarke at first, but Clarke manages to put her at ease, and soon the conversation flows easily. Octavia tells Clarke about her work at the martial arts gym where she teaches and trains for competitions.

 

“You never told me your sister was such a badass,” Clarke says. “Can she totally kick your ass?”

 

Bellamy chuckles. He’s used to Clarke teasing him a little by now, even if it is kind of weird to be teased in front of his sister. Octavia loves it.

 

“ _Now_  I can totally kick his ass,” Octavia says. “Because I kept up with my training. Back when he was still doing it we were much more evenly matched.”

 

“You were an MMA fighter?” Clarke asks, her eyes going wide.

 

“No, just Brazilian jiu-jitsu and little boxing,” he says.

 

“Bell’s a lover, not a fighter,” Octavia says.

 

It was true. He’d liked it for the workouts and the discipline, but he’d never loved competing, not like Octavia does. He’d also only been able to afford the gym fees for one of them, and Octavia always came first for him.

 

Clarke is staring at him like she’s pondering what other random past hobbies he might have. The more time they spend together, the more determined she seems to solve him, like he’s a puzzle or a Rubik’s cube.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head.

 

The conversation continues as they eat, and after a while Octavia asks about Bellamy’s best friend, Miller. “What’s Nathan up to these days?”

 

“Working hard to get his company off the ground. Raven’s working with him, actually,” Bellamy replies. “They got a loan from the bank, and they’ve mostly been getting things organized and set up before they open for business.”

 

“Who’s Nathan?” Clarke asks.

 

“Oh, my friend Miller who I play video games with sometimes. His first name is Nathan but nobody calls him that,” Bellamy answers.

 

“Except for me,” Octavia says. “He’s like my second older brother.”

 

“Okay, Raven’s told me about him. I just didn’t recognize his first name,” Clarke says. “They’re starting a security company, right?”

 

“Security system installation,” Bellamy replies. “Miller’s dad is actually head of security at the museum. He’s the one who got me the job all those years ago. Miller—the younger Miller—actually worked there too for a while, after he finished college, but he left to start his own business.”

 

“You haven’t met Miller yet?” Octavia asks Clarke.

 

“I haven’t met any of Bellamy’s friends other than Raven,” Clarke says.

 

“I haven’t met any of your friends either,” Bellamy responds.

 

“You guys should have a party,” Octavia says. “That way you can meet each other’s friends. Who knows, maybe Bellamy will even talk to people he doesn’t know and branch out a little bit.”

 

“That’s a great idea!” Clarke says, her face animated with growing excitement.

 

“Hey, I branch out,” Bellamy grumbles.

 

“Ha!” Octavia says. “You do not.” She turns to Clarke. “Bellamy hasn’t made a new friend since before Obama was elected the first time.”

 

“That’s not entirely true,” Bellamy protests.

 

“Girls you meet at bars don’t count,” Octavia says haughtily.

 

To Bellamy’s surprise, Clarke is pouting a little bit. As much as he hates to admit it, it looks cute on her. Really cute. “What about me?” she asks. “I thought we were friends.”

 

“You’re right,” he says quickly. “We are.”

 

Clarke’s pout turns into a smile, and Octavia beams at both of them. It’s true, they have become friends. He didn’t expect it to turn out that way, but he’s glad it happened.

 

Clarke takes Octavia’s suggestion to heart and decides that they need to have a party—“A sort of belated housewarming,” as she puts it—and Bellamy finds himself agreeing, because one thing he’s finding about being friends with Clarke is that she’s a really convincing person when she wants something.

 

He doesn’t have that many people to invite. There’s Octavia, of course, and Raven, and Miller, and a few other security guards from work—Murphy, Atom, and Monroe are the three he actually talks to about things other than work, albeit mostly sports-related.

 

Clarke doesn’t have a ton of people to invite since she’s only been back in town for a few weeks, but she already has more friends than Bellamy. He’s neither surprised nor bothered by this. She invites several of her colleagues from her museum department, as well as a few of the junior curators she doesn’t think are snobs. She also invites some of her friends from childhood and high school who still live in Ark, including her best friend Wells, whom she’s talked about before.

 

All told, on the night of the party, they have over twenty people in their house. Bellamy isn't sure at first what a party with museum security guards, conservators, and curators to a going to be like, but it turns out it's fine. They're all in their twenties and early thirties, and some of the people actually do know each other, or at least recognize each other from the museum.

 

Miller corners Bellamy early on, looking shyly around the kitchen before speaking. "What's the deal with Clarke's co-worker? The little guy."

 

Bellamy looks over to where Clarke is laughing with a group of people from her department. "I think his name's Monty? I met him when he got here. He's worked in conservation for a while now."

 

"I know," Miller says. "I recognize him from when I was there."

 

Bellamy smiles knowingly at his friend. "Oh really? So why are you asking me about him?"

 

"I don't know, I thought maybe you knew something since you live with Clarke now."

 

"Sorry man, we don't talk about work that much. You could always try talking to him yourself, you know," he suggests.

 

"You know I'm bad at that," Miller says.

 

"Hey, it's a party," Bellamy says. "Go outside your comfort zone a little. More beer will help."

 

"Ha, this coming from Mr. Antisocial himself. You better be careful or someone will mistake you for something other than a misanthrope."

 

Bellamy shrugs. "Jury's still out."

 

Bellamy's not great at talking to new people, but Octavia and Clarke are, so between the two of them they manage to pull him into several conversations with people, and to his surprise, he doesn't hate it. Sure, some of the chatter seems inane, but a lot of it is actually interesting. 

 

He ends up having a great conversation with Monty about the history behind one of the paintings they're currently restoring, a Renaissance painting of a crucifixion. Bellamy has always been fascinated by history, and the stories behind the works housed in the museum have always intrigued him. But he never realized how in depth the research went for the conservators to properly restore things. 

 

Monty, it turns out, specializes in paint and other media, and is in charge of determining the chemical composition of the paints used in the works they're restoring, as well as mixing appropriate paints to be used in restorations that will match the existing colors and not damage the work.

 

"You would not believe some of the stuff they used to make paint out of, dude," Monty tells him. "We’re talking spit, urine, any number of animal products. Sometimes I have to, like, put myself in the mindset of a painter and be like 'Hey, if I was just hanging out in Umbria or whatever in the 1480s, what would I throw together to make the perfect crucifixion red?"

 

"'Crucifixion red'?" Bellamy asks, slightly incredulous.

 

"Yeah man, those guys were constantly painting poor old Jesus bleeding on the cross. Must've been so depressing," Monty replies.

 

"Or, you know, profoundly inspirational, because they were devout Christians and Christ's suffering was a huge part of their faith," Clarke jumps in and challenges.

 

“ _I_ would have gotten depressed,” Monty says. “I hope we get to work on something happy next.”

 

“You know we’ve got that Titian coming up,” Clarke tells him. “Dr. Nyko confirmed it the other day.”

 

“Oooooh,” Monty responds. “That’s going to be an awesome project.”

 

“I know,” Clarke says, her eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.

 

Bellamy hasn’t gotten much of a chance to talk with Clarke about her work, in spite of the time they’ve been spending together. Once they’d finished going over the basics of their backgrounds, their dinner conversations had focused on current events and pop culture more than anything else, and Bellamy figured talking about work at home might be overkill. They were there all day anyway. The evenings were a nice time to get away from it.

 

But he can clearly see that Clarke is passionate about what she does, and he finds himself wanting to ask her about it. He figures it’s something he can bring up another day, but after the party’s been going for a few hours, he finds he gets his chance.

 

He’s stepped out into the small backyard behind the house to have a cigarette. Bellamy’s not much of a smoker, but he enjoys having one when he’s been drinking, which he has been tonight. He’s not wasted, but he’s definitely buzzed, and he’s being more social than he’s used to. When he finds a spare moment to get away for some solitude, he takes it.

 

He’s only alone for a few moments before the back door opens and someone steps outside.

 

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he hears Clarke say in that husky voice of hers as she walks toward him.

 

“I try not to advertise my vices,” he replies. “And I don’t do it very much.”

 

“Got another?” she asks.

 

“You smoke?” he asks in surprise, because Clarke really does not strike him as a smoker.

 

“Socially, sometimes, when I’m drinking,” she replies, holding out her hand to take the cigarette he offers. “I did go to grad school in Europe, it’s practically part of the curriculum.”

 

Bellamy chuckles as he gives her a light. “I thought it made me cool when I was younger,” he says. “But Octavia called me out on my shit, like she always does. So I don’t make a habit of it. Just felt like one tonight, though.”

 

There’s a chill in the air, the onset of fall, but it’s still nice enough that they decide to sit down on the back steps and hang out for a while. The din of voices coming from inside can still be heard.

 

“Good party,” Bellamy says.

 

“I know, right?” Clarke replies. “It’s a good combination of people.”

 

“I wasn’t sure how your crowd was going to mix with mine, to be honest.”

 

“Really? Everyone seems to be getting along great.”

 

Bellamy shrugs. “I know. I guess I just thought curators and conservators would never want to hang out with security guards.”

 

“Did you ever try?” Clarke asks.

 

Bellamy scoffs. “It’s not like we get invited to your Christmas party.”

 

“Hmm,” Clarke says. “You’re right. Well, if you think I look down on you because you’re a security guard, you’re wrong. And most of my friends are the same as me.” She takes a drag and looks at him thoughtfully. “You really think we come from different worlds, don’t you.”

 

“Well, yeah,” he replies. “We do. We’re from opposite sides of town. You have multiple degrees, you’ve lived in Europe, you own a house. I’m a security guard with a high school diploma and credit card debt who doesn’t even have a passport.”

 

“You worked your ass off to put your sister through college,” Clarke says defensively, which Bellamy notes is defensiveness on his behalf. “And you raised her. I think your life experience is pretty damn impressive.”

 

Bellamy is quiet for a moment. “Thanks,” he says eventually, unsure of how else to respond. “You see what I mean about us being different, though, right?”

 

Clarke chews on her bottom lip briefly as she considers her answer. “I guess,” she says. “But I think we have a lot more in common than you realize, too.”

 

“You do?”

 

She nods. “I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe it’s the wine, I just… I’m glad you moved in. I feel like you get me.”

 

“You think I ‘get’ you?”

 

“You do,” she insists. “I’ve been misunderstood by a lot of people in my life, but you’re different.”

 

“We’ve barely known each other two months,” he says.

 

“I know,” she replies. “Like I said, I don’t know how to explain it.”

 

She grows quiet as she finishes her cigarette, and Bellamy is left to ponder her words. He’s not sure how he feels about them, so he decides to change the subject slightly.

 

“It was pretty cool talking to Monty earlier about the stuff you guys work on,” he says. “Super high tech.”

 

Clarke smiles. “It is the department of ‘Conservation and Scientific Research,’ so it’s pretty obvious we’re a bunch of nerds.”

 

“I knew you had a bunch of equipment in there,” Bellamy continues. “The x-ray machine, the infrared camera, the microscopes… I guess I’ve just never really talked to anyone who actually uses it before.”

 

“You’ve been in the department before though, right?”

 

“A few times, but it’s not really part of my area. I’ve been stuck in the Renaissance galleries for years. Your part of the museum is Shumway’s domain.”

 

Clarke makes a face. “He’s that smarmy Asian dude in his forties, right?”

 

Bellamy laughs. “Exactly.”

 

“Well, you should come by some time for a tour. I can show you what we’re working on, even let you play with the machines if you come after the bosses are gone,” Clarke says with a twinkle in her eye.

 

“That would be really cool, actually,” Bellamy says, because he’s a nerd at heart, too, and he would love to see how that stuff works. “You really like what you do, don’t you,” he says to Clarke, his voice growing slightly quiet.

 

She looks over in surprise, and smiles. “I do, yeah.”

 

“You’re lucky to get to do something you love,” he says.

 

“I am lucky,” she says, and he can tell that she means it.

 

“How did you know you wanted to be a conservator?”

 

“I’ve always loved art, ever since I was a little kid,” she replies. “My dad was an architect, and he used to let me play with drafting paper and art supplies in his office while he worked. For a while I thought I wanted to be an artist, but by the time I got to college I realized I wasn’t ever going to be the kind of person who could become completely immersed in my art, the way a dedicated artist needs to be.”

 

She puts her cigarette butt into an empty beer can and shifts slightly so she’s facing him.

 

“I decided to double major in fine art and art history, because I figured out that I love the context of what goes into making art as much as I love art itself. There are all these human elements to it, you know? It’s not just about the paint and the canvas, it’s about what the artist is feeling that day, what the political climate is at the time, who the intended audience is, where the paint and canvas come from. There are so many factors.”

 

Clarke is using her hands now as she talks, sweeping them across an invisible canvas in front of her, and Bellamy finds himself transfixed by the tips of her fingers as they move through the air.

 

“I was a little lost after college, because it’s not like there are a ton of jobs out there for art history majors, but after—“ she pauses, looking out in to the night, and then back again. “After my dad died, I decided I needed to do something with my life, get focused. I found a program at Cambridge and decided to go for it.

 

She reaches in the pocket of her sweatshirt for another can of beer and cracks it open, offering it to him first for a sip, which he takes.

 

“Every day at work, it’s like I’m a detective, you know? I get to unravel the hidden history behind these paintings, figure out what happened between the time they were made and today, decide how to best preserve them and make them as close to what the artist originally intended as possible. I’m still really early on in my career, and I have so much more to learn, but I’m in the best place to be learning it.”

 

She grows quiet again and looks slightly embarrassed after talking so much, but Bellamy is fully drawn in by her love for the art and the world that created it. He realizes deep down that he envies her. He’s always had to work out of necessity, not out of passion. He wonders what it would be like to feel about a job the way Clarke feels about hers, how he would even get to that point.

 

“That’s really great, Clarke,” he says. “I’m glad you get to do what you do. And I’m sorry I haven’t asked you about it before. I guess I thought talking about work at home might be boring.”

 

Clarke breaks into a smile. “Trust me, I will bore you if I talk about it too much.”

 

“No way,” he says. “I’d love to hear more about what you guys do. I love art history. It’s one of the reasons I took this job in the first place—well, I needed the job, and Miller’s dad had an opening. But the fact that the museum is free? That was huge for me as a kid with no money. It took one school fieldtrip, and after that I would come back here on my own every chance I got.”

 

“Seriously?” Clarke asks. “That’s awesome.”

 

“I used to drag Octavia with me too,” he says ruefully. “She wasn’t as into it. But anyway, when a job came up, I took it. So I’m down to hear more if you ever want to talk about it.”

 

“Awesome,” Clarke says. And then she leans over suddenly and hugs him, her arms going over his shoulders and her face burrowing into his neck.

 

Bellamy loops his hands around her waist and pulls her in closer, and for a moment they just sit there hugging, before Clarke gives a squeeze and backs away.

 

“I just wanted to hug you,” she explains.

 

“That’s fine,” Bellamy says bashfully. “Hugs are good.” The truth is, he’s not used to hugging anyone other than his sister, and he finds that the contact with Clarke does something to him he’s not quite prepared for.

 

Clarke stays true to her word and soon after the party, she makes a plan to meet Bellamy at the end of his shift so she can show him around her department. He clocks out and heads in that direction, and he’s almost to the entrance when he runs into Shumway.

 

“What are you doing over here, Blake?” he asks, checking his watch. “You’re not on this shift.”

 

“Yeah, I’m actually meeting someone,” Bellamy replies, silently hoping Clarke comes to save him. He’s never liked Shumway, but Shumway is his superior, so the less interaction he has with him, the better.

 

Shumway gives him a skeptical look, and then Bellamy’s prayers are answered as the door opens and Clarke pokes her head out.

 

“Bellamy!” she says with a wide smile. “You made it.”

 

Bellamy nods at Shumway, whose expression has shifted to dubious, and follows Clarke through the door.

 

“I’m so excited you’re here,” Clarke says as she leads him into a large main room with several small rooms and offices off to the sides. “They just brought in the Titian we’re about to start working on. You’ll probably recognize it from the Renaissance galleries.”

 

“ _Venus and Adonis_ ,” Bellamy says, walking up to where the painting has been placed at the center of a work area toward the back of the room. The frame has been removed, but the painting is still sizeable, about three and a half feet tall by four and a half feet wide. He does recognize it from the galleries, but it feels different out of the frame, more intimate, more real. He sees it suddenly as Clarke must see it, a physical object with layers and layers of paint and centuries of aging.

 

“Titian painted several versions of this, but I’ve always loved this one,” Clarke says as she stands by his side. “He painted it later in life, and it’s feels to me like it has a softer quality to it than the others.”

 

Two figures are at the center of the painting, Venus and Adonis. Venus, mostly nude, is leaning backwards in a seated position, her arms thrown around Adonis’ torso. Adonis is dressed for a hunt, and is stepping away from Venus, his hounds waiting. But his face is turned back to Venus, and the two lovers are locked in eye contact.

 

“Adonis leaving his lover, only to get gored to death by a boar,” Bellamy muses as he takes in the lines of the brilliantly executed figures.

 

“You know the story?” Clarke asks.

 

Bellamy shrugs. “I’ve read Ovid.”

 

“For fun?”

 

“I like the classics,” he says. “My mom had this mythology book she used to read to me when I was a kid and I guess it kind of sparked something.”

 

“Nobody reads _Metamorphoses_  for fun,” Clarke declares.

 

“I did. I read a lot of stuff most people don’t consider fun.”

 

She has her puzzle-solving face on again. “You’re like this crazy, nerdy autodidact. I never would have guessed that when I first met you.”

 

"I like exploring the human condition," Bellamy says.

 

"Yeah, just a casual hobby," Clarke remarks with a laugh. 

 

"Like this painting." He gestures to the canvas in front of them. "It's about a moment between two lovers, sure, but it's also more than that. Titian is highlighting the tension between the mundane affairs of the domestic and the seemingly more important external happenings symbolized by hunting, like war and politics. That's something everyone can relate to, and the myth shows Adonis paying a price for his choice, conveying a wide-ranging message."

 

"Ignore your girlfriend and get impaled on the tusks of a wild boar?" Clarke says with a twinkle in her eye.

 

"Exactly," Bellamy says, his lips curving in a smile. "There are lots of ways to interpret it, but that's what I love about mythology in general. It forces us to think about things that have been confounding mankind for centuries. The major questions and problems endure."

 

"I wish I'd had you to cheat off of in my classics classes in college," Clarke jokes. "I would have gotten much better grades."

 

"I'm sure your grades were fine," he replies, tamping down his pleasure at her words. He allows himself to briefly imagine a different life, a carefree one where college had been an option for him at a younger age, where he could have studied classics and flirted with girls like Clarke under the guise of doing homework. He hasn't written off college entirely—especially now that Octavia has graduated, he can start thinking about going back to night school. But he'll never have the kind of college experience that Clarke had.

 

Clarke sighs. "I guess my overachiever status is pretty obvious?"

 

"Just a bit, Ms. Conservator. Speaking of which, tell me about the plan for this painting."

 

"Well, restoration is a long process. And it takes a team of people to do it properly. I'll be working on background research into how the painting itself was made, and the later will assist with the actual, physical restoration."

 

"What's the background research?"

 

"Because Titian is so well known, we already have a lot of information about his process, which saves us some time. What we need to figure out is what types of materials he used to make this specific painting, and how they've aged over time. Part of that we can deduce just by looking at it, but we'll also take tiny samples—about the size of a grain of sand—from different places on the painting where we have to do work and have Monty and his guys run tests to determine the chemical composition of the paint layers."

 

"Ah yes, the pursuit of the crucifixion red," Bellamy says.

 

"Monty should have a side job naming paint colors, right? Although in this case it'll mostly be the pursuit of the specific shade of Venus' backside," Clarke replies. "If you look closely, you can see some discoloration on her right butt cheek, likely caused by a combination of natural aging and previous, misguided attempts at restoration."

 

"Someone else already tried to fix it?"

 

"A painting this old has definitely been restored before," Clarke answers. "This one changed hands amongst the minor British peerage for a few hundred years before it was auctioned off and eventually donated to the museum. Over that amount of time, any number of things could have been done to it. It's kind of depressing as a conservator, really, seeing how badly restorations have been done over time.”

 

“I bet,” Bellamy says.

 

“Without the benefits of modern science, people didn't understand the damage they could do by slapping a layer of paint or varnish onto an old piece,” she continues. “That's another thing the chemists help us do—make sure that whatever restorations we do won't be harmful to the integrity of the original piece. A lot of our work is about undoing the existing damage and then trying to get the painting as close to Titian's original vision as possible without causing any further harm."

 

"How do you figure out Titian's original vision?" Bellamy asks. 

 

"I was thinking we could hold a séance at our place and try to contact his ghost?" Clarke says with a straight face.

 

"Were séances part of the curriculum at Cambridge along with smoking?" Bellamy asks, playing along. 

 

"It was an elective, but I consider skills as a medium to be crucial in this line of work," she replies, and then her face crumbles in laughter, which is contagious. He imagines them sitting in living room surrounded by candles, trying to contact the spirit of Titian, and while it's a ridiculous thought, he knows he would do it for Clarke. 

 

"In all seriousness," she continues, "that human element is the hardest part to understand. It's impossible to know what Titian would have wanted. So we use science and history to help us approximate the original as closely as possible. It's like Monty said, you have to get into the mindset of the artist."

 

"So if you start dressing like Titian it's just for work, right?" Bellamy jokes.

 

"Oh my god, could you imagine if I just walked out of my room one day wearing leggings and a tunic and speaking 15th century Venetian dialect Italian?"

 

"Anything for the integrity of Venus' right ass cheek," Bellamy deadpans.

 

Clarke dissolves into giggles, earning her a stern glance from one of her more grey-haired colleagues. She straightens and quiets down, but she can't quite erase the mirth from her face.  

 

"Okay, do you want to see how the x-ray works?" she says.

 

"Definitely," Bellamy replies.

 

Clarke gives him a full demonstration of the x-radiography equipment, as well as some of the other high tech stuff, and they say hi to Monty and his crew and get a demo of the chem lab. There are numerous other works in the process of being studied and restored, and they take their time looking at them, with Bellamy asking questions about various steps in the restorations and the background of each piece. Clarke shows him her desk, which is decorated with a few plants and photos, one of her and Wells and one of her and a man with sandy blonde hair whom he guesses must be her father.

 

It’s the most pleasant afternoon Bellamy has spent in a while. They’re still talking history when the last of Clarke’s colleagues leaves for the day, and they look around realizing the office is empty.

 

“I guess it’s probably time to head out,” Clarke says.

 

Bellamy feels an odd wave of shyness come over him now that they’re alone. “This has been really great, Clarke. Thanks.”

 

“My pleasure,” she says, reaching for her coat.

 

“It’s almost dinner time,” he says. “Any interest in grabbing a bite somewhere on the way home? You’re probably sick of my cooking already.”

 

“Oh,” Clarke replies, slightly awkward. “I actually… I have a date tonight.”

 

Bellamy feels something in his chest deflate that he didn’t know was there, quickly followed by embarrassment at the fact that he’d assumed she would want to keep hanging out with him.

 

“Oh, well, um, I guess you don’t need dinner, then,” he fumbles.

 

“I should probably get home so I can get ready,” she says. “You should still go for food if you want to, though.”

 

Bellamy’s first instinct is to run, to go get food and get as far away from this Clarke date situation as he can, but instead he hears himself saying, “Did you take the train in? I was planning on taking it home, if you’re going that way too.”

 

“I did,” she says, a smile smoothing away the weirdness. “Let me just get my stuff.”

 

They continue chatting during the commute home, and it’s nice, but it’s lacking the intimacy of their time together earlier that day, in which Bellamy had felt a connection with Clarke that he hasn’t felt with someone before. He tells himself it’s the nerdy art history stuff they have in common, but he also knows it has something to do with their talk at the party the other night, when they’d been alone for a while, and it had been different from the way they were alone in their apartment together on any given day.

 

It’s friendship, he repeats to himself. It’s unfamiliar because he hasn’t made a friend in so long, he’s forgotten what this feels like, this getting to know another person, this process of opening up.

 

_Friendship, friendship, friendship_  he repeats to himself like a mantra when Clarke steps out of her room dressed for her date, her eyes smoky and her hair smooth, wearing a dark purple dress that hugs the curves of her body in a way that’s both classy and suggestive all at once.  _Friendship. Roommate._

 

“You look nice,” he says from where he’s making a small dinner for himself.

 

“Thanks,” she says, her lips curving shyly. “We’ll see how this goes. I’m a little nervous, to be honest.”

 

“Who’s your date?” he can’t help but ask.

 

“Her name is Fleur,” she responds. “She’s a junior curator at the modern art museum across town.”

 

“Why are you nervous?” he asks. He thinks it might be overstepping, but Clarke doesn’t seem to mind.

 

“She’s the first person I’ve dated since Lexa,” Clarke admits. “Raven and Wells talked me into it. They’re convinced I need to get back out there and stop dwelling.”

 

“You don’t seem like you’re dwelling,” Bellamy says.

 

“Thank you! That’s what I told them. But they want evidence in the form of me at least pretending to be interested in other people, so here we are. And I am interested, I guess. Fleur is really hot and we seem to have a lot in common.”

 

“Then I bet you’ll be fine,” he reassures her.

 

“Thanks Bellamy,” she says with a sigh and walks over to him, pulling him in for a quick, surprising hug. He barely gets his arms around her before she pulls away again.

 

“I should go, I don’t want to be too late. I’ll see you later,” she says as she heads for the door.

 

“Bye Clarke,” he says to her retreating form.

 

Once she’s gone, he digs out his phone and texts Miller, Murphy, and Atom.

 

_Bar tonight?_

 

It's been a while since he's been out for drinks with the boys, and it's been even longer since he left the bar with a woman, but for some reason that's on his mind right now. He may not be the most social person in the world, but he can be fairly successful with women when he puts his mind to it, which he's done from time to time over the last few years. He didn't do much dating between the time his mother died and Octavia starting college, since he was so focused on raising his sister and didn't have the time (or the desire for the distraction). 

 

Looking back now, he suspects he missed out on some of the formative experiences with relationships that many of his peers had in their late teens and early twenties. By the time Octavia was in college and he felt comfortable dating again, he found himself enjoying sleeping with women but not feeling the desire to make a lasting connection with any of them. 

 

He thinks of Clarke dressed up for her date, heading off for dinner somewhere. He can't remember the last time he had dinner with a woman who wasn't Octavia, Raven, or Clarke, and wonders if he should be taking women on actual dates instead of just meeting them in bars and going home with them.

 

And he always goes home with them, never the reverse. Octavia lived at home throughout college and he’d never felt comfortable bringing women while she was there. Now he realizes he probably wouldn't feel comfortable bringing a woman home to the place he shares with Clarke, either, and this leads him to a jarring thought. What if Clarke brought her date back to their place? Would he feel comfortable being there? He doesn't think so, even though he can't pinpoint the exact reason why. It just makes him feel uneasy to even think about.

 

He's relieved when he gets affirmative texts back from Murphy and Atom and he might have a reason to not come home later. Miller is "busy," he suspects with Monty. Bellamy and the others make plans to meet at a bar that's slightly nicer than the local dive, and Bellamy puts on a slightly nicer shirt than usual, meaning he's putting in effort, the motivation behind which he does not question.

 

"You're on the prowl tonight, Blake," Murphy says as he catches Bellamy checking out a group of women at a nearby table. 

 

"Yeah, you've been so boring since you moved," Atom says. "That party last week was pretty rad, though. Glad to see you’re back into doing fun shit." 

 

"You should do _someone_ tonight," Murphy says suggestively. "That brunette over there looks right up your alley and she keeps eyeballing you when you're not paying attention."

 

"Your roommate is super hot, by the way," Atom says, still on the subject of the party.

 

Bellamy just gives him a vaguely threatening look and gets up to go talk to the women.

 

The brunette is interested, and Bellamy goes home with her, and it’s fun, but it doesn’t really satisfy him in the way he he’d been looking to be satisfied—which, if he’s being completely honest, isn’t a tangible kind of satisfaction he can really define right now. He slips out early in the morning and heads home, where he runs into Clarke in the kitchen. She’s wearing her regular pajamas and there’s no one else in the apartment, meaning his avoidance of the place was unnecessary.

 

“Hi,” she says, surprised. “I thought you were asleep in your room. Did you not come home last night?”

 

Bellamy feels his cheeks heating slightly. “I ended up going to the bar with Murphy and Atom.”

 

“Did you stay at one of their places?” she asks.

 

“Uh, no,” he says awkwardly.

 

A look of comprehension crosses Clarke’s face and her lips a silent _oh_. “Well that’s good for you, I guess?”

 

Bellamy hates this conversation and wishes they weren’t having it, but he can’t quite escape it. “How did your date go last night?”

 

“Not as well as your trip to the bar, apparently,” she replies with some sass in her voice. She slides a cup of coffee in his direction and he takes it appreciatively. “It was fine, I guess,” she continues. “She was gorgeous, and really smart, and I’d probably sleep with her if we went out again, but I’m not sure she’s really what I’m looking for right now.”

 

“What are you looking for?” he hears himself asking.  

 

Clarke shrugs. “I don’t know, really. To get over Lexa? I mean, I’m over her in a lot of ways, I think. But I need to get back on the proverbial horse and open myself up to other people again, or so Raven says.”

 

“I find it hard to imagine Raven using the phrase ‘open up to people,’” he comments.

 

Clarke snorts. “Right? Anyway, Wells wants to set me up with some guy he knows from law school, so I guess I’ll give that a shot, too. That way they can’t say I didn’t try.”

 

Before he can stop himself, Bellamy finds his mind jumping to a place where he wonders what things might be like if they weren’t roommates, if they’d met some other way—would she ever consider trying with _him_? He squashes the thought down almost immediately and settles in to finish his coffee.

 

After that, a few things happen that establish a bit of a routine in the house. Clarke continues to go on dates, but once Bellamy realizes that she’s not bringing any of her dates home, he doesn’t feel as much of a need to go out and stay out all night. So he starts seeing Clarke if he’s still awake when she comes home from her dates, and she’ll even give him a brief rundown.

 

Clarke also convinces him to watch _Battlestar Galactica_  with her, which he refuses at first, claiming he’s “just not into spacey sci fi stuff,” but is (embarrassingly) quickly talked into it after she argues that “if you like thinking about the human condition so much, you have to give this show a chance, because that’s what it’s really about, not just ‘spacey sci fi stuff.’”

 

Clarke has already seen the show in its entirety, but wants to watch it again, and decides that it would be more fun if Bellamy watched it with her. He’s pretty skeptical when it starts and there is definitely a lot of space stuff, but by the time the credits roll on the second episode of the opening miniseries, he’s hooked, and Clarke is smiling smugly at him from her place on the couch.

 

It becomes something they do together in the evenings when they’re both home and free. Clarke likes to change into her pajamas and get settled on one end of the couch, while Bellamy takes his place at the other. It’s a big enough couch for both of them, but the further they get in the show, the more comfortable they each get with spreading out, especially Clarke.

 

One night she asks Bellamy if he minds her putting her feet across his lap so she can lie down, and when he says okay she grins and stretches like a cat until her ankles hit his thighs. This is part of a more general development in their friendship where they’ve become more comfortable touching each other. It started when she’d hugged him after their talk at the housewarming party, and by the time they’re into season two of _Battlestar Galactica_  Clarke is regularly dozing off with her feet in Bellamy’s lap, his arm across her shins. He’ll shake her legs to wake her up when the episode is over and she’ll grumble as she sits up and shuffles off to bed.

 

One night he reaches out and ruffles her hair mid-grumble and she smiles at him sleepily, beautiful under her tangle of hair. This does something to his insides that makes him realize he feels something for her that’s more than objective attraction, more than friendly affection for a roommate. He doesn’t have a label for it, he simply understands that it’s _more_ , and that he’s in trouble.

 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was meant to be a convenient living arrangement, nothing more, and if they became friends too, well, great. But this, this is something unfamiliar and scary, and it started as friendship but now it’s a well of feelings he can’t sort out. He decides he should do his best to keep it all under control.

 

Certain things make more sense to him after he has this realization. For one thing, the weirdness he feels about Clarke’s dating life is clearly jealousy, and he should have figured it out weeks ago. But no, he had to stubbornly go out and try and prove that he didn’t mind by pursuing women in bars and getting nothing from it. And for another, he gets an actual jolt when she touches him or when she looks at him a certain way, and he prays he keeps it cool, because the last thing he needs is his roommate discovering he has a ridiculous crush on her.

 

_Ridiculous crush_ is the label he decides on, finally. How else to describe it? It’s more than the physical attraction, which is definitely a thing. He’s felt physical attraction before. It’s the emotional side of it all that’s confounding, the fact that he _likes her as a person_ , that he likes talking to her and debating things with her and laughing with her and just being around her. That’s what he doesn’t know how to handle.

 

It goes on like this for weeks. They more comfortable they get with one another, the more intense Bellamy’s feelings get, but he still does nothing. He thinks he’s doing a great job of hiding things until Raven calls him out one night when the three of them are at the bar.

 

“You’re into her,” she accuses when Clarke leaves to go to the bathroom.

 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks.

 

“You have a crush on Clarke. I can see it all over your face.”

 

“I don’t—that’s not—we’re roommates, Raven. She’s pretty. I’m not blind,” he explains.

 

“And I’m not blind either,” Raven says. “Ever since you moved in, you’ve been different, especially lately. You’re not constantly complaining about the state of the world, and you laugh at all her dumb jokes. And Griffin has got some _dumb jokes_. Plus there’s the stupid expression you get when you look at her.”

 

“Please tell me I’m not that obvious,” he begs, admitting defeat.

 

“To me you are,” Raven says. “But to her you’re not. Damn, dude.”

 

“Nothing’s going to come of it,” he says. “Just forget about it, okay?”

 

“Why would you say that?” Raven asks.

 

“Just leave it, Raven. Please?”

 

Raven considers him for a moment. “Okay,” she says, but she looks at him in consternation until Clarke returns and the conversation picks up where it had stopped when she left.

 

At some point, they start dropping by to say hi to each other at work sometimes when they’re in the same part of the museum. One day, Bellamy decides to stop in and say hi to Clarke when he's on his afternoon break, but when he gets to her desk he finds it empty. Monty and the others don't know where she is, only that she stepped out to take a phone call about fifteen minutes prior and had yet to return.

 

"She looked kinda mad, honestly," Monty says. "I'd go check on her but I can't leave this equipment while we’re running the analysis."

 

"I'll go look for her," Bellamy tells him.

 

Bellamy knows that sometimes Clarke likes to go to the sculpture garden when she's at the museum, so he heads in that direction. The garden doesn't get much visitor traffic this time of year because of the cold weather, so he finds the walkways empty. He walks along the path until he gets to a far corner of the garden and notices a figure in a puffy coat sitting on a ledge next to a sculpture, facing away from him.

 

He knows its Clarke by the coat and by the spill of her hair from under her knit cap. As he gets closer, he hears the sound of sniffling.

 

"Clarke?" he says, his voice full of worry.

 

She turns her head and he sees tears tracking down her cheeks, her face red from crying. 

 

"Bellamy? How did you find me?" she asks.

 

"Monty said you left to take a call, and I know you like this place," he replies as he sits down next to her. "Are you okay?"

 

Clarke sniffles again, opens her mouth to say something, and the pauses. "Not really," she admits eventually. 

 

"What happened?" Bellamy asks. He feels a fierce protectiveness kicking in as he seeks to discover the cause of Clarke's pain, so he can fix it.

 

Clarke sighs. "My mom called. She and I don't have the best relationship. You've probably noticed I don't talk about her much."

 

"Did she say something to you?" he asks, feeling anger towards the cold woman he knows only by sight from when she comes to the museum for board meetings. 

 

"Today's the anniversary of when my dad died," she continues, and Bellamy feels his heart break at the sound of her words and the pain contained within them. "It's been four years since the accident. Some fucking idiot was texting while driving."

 

Bellamy's arm goes instinctively around Clarke's shoulders and she leans into him. "I'm so sorry," he says. "I didn't know."

 

"It's not really something I label on the calendar," she says. "Anyway, I have my ways of coping on this day each year. It usually involves drinking a bottle of wine and raging at the universe. But my mother had the brilliant idea that we should do something together now that I'm back in Ark, so she called and suggested I come over for dinner with her and Marcus."

 

"Marcus who? Kane?" he guesses, thinking of the museum director, who's the only Marcus he knows.

 

"Yep," Clarke says crisply. "They're a thing. Have been for years. They were having an affair when my dad died."

 

"Holy shit," Bellamy breathes. "Did you know?"

 

"Not right away. But she decided to tell me few months after the accident, and was confused when I wasn't thrilled that she'd apparently found 'the love of her life.' I knew things weren't great between her and my dad, but I had no idea she had a side piece."

 

"Did your dad know?"

 

"No," Clarke says. "He never knew. He died thinking his wife was faithful to him. I don't know whether I'm grateful for that or resentful of it. It's been a mess between my mom and me ever since, and when she invited me over, to dinner with _him_ , on today of all days, I just lost it."

 

Clarke's voice breaks and her chest starts to heave as the tears start again, and Bellamy wraps his other arm around her and pulls her into him. He feels her arms slide around his midsection as she holds onto him like an anchor against the waves of grief. Bellamy finds his nose buried in her hair as he tries to absorb some of her pain for her, knowing from his own experience losing his mother that there's not much he can do besides be there. When she pulls away eventually he feels the cold air rush back between them. 

 

"It's like she has a sensitivity chip missing, or something," Clarke says. "This is such an Abby Griffin thing to do. And the worst part is, she'll never understand why I'm so upset about it. She'll just write me off as being too emotional like she always does."

 

"Screw her," Bellamy says. "It doesn't matter what she thinks. You're allowed to feel whatever the hell you want on a day like today."

 

The corners of Clarke's mouth tilt up and Bellamy feels a surge of relief that she’s smiling, even in the midst of darkness. 

 

"I can't wait for you to eventually meet her," she says.

 

"Who, your mom?" he asks skeptically.

 

"You're going to infuriate her, and I'm going to love it," Clarke explains. 

 

Bellamy can't help but chuckle. "If you say so."

 

"Trust me. Hey, what time is it?" she asks.

 

"I don't know, probably almost four?" 

 

Clarke sighs. "I don't want to go back to work."

 

"Then don't," he says. "Tell them you're going home sick. You definitely have a legit reason."

 

Clarke stares into the distance for a moment, as if trying to conjure something. "I don't really want to go home, either," she says after a while. 

 

"Where do you want to go? I'll take you," he says. 

 

Clarke turns to face him, her eyes watery and wide. "But you have to go back to work too."

 

"I can leave early," he says. "Wherever you want to go, whatever you want to do, let's do it."

 

Clarke looks like she's about to cry again, and he feels awful until she dives in and hugs him and says, "Thank you. For being here."

 

“Anytime,” he says against the top of her head.

 

They make their excuses to their supervisors and head for the train, which they ride around city for a while. Clarke doesn’t seem to have any particular destination in mind, she just wants to be in motion, and Bellamy is happy to be with her, so they ride to the end of the line and cross the platform to get on the train heading the opposite direction.

 

Eventually they get hungry, and Clarke suggests they go to an Italian place she used to go to with her dad.

 

“You’re sure?” Bellamy asks.

 

“Remember how I said my coping mechanism involved drinking a bottle of wine?” she asks. “It’s probably best if I’m also eating lots of carbs while drinking said wine. Plus this place has the best cannelloni in the city.”

 

She’s not lying. They order the cannelloni, and enough other dishes to share that they have a veritable feast in front of them. Clarke talks Bellamy into the wine too, even though he’s not usually a wine drinker. The first bottle goes quickly and when she orders a second, Bellamy gets what Clarke was saying and is glad they have so much food to help absorb the alcohol.

 

It’s decadent and delicious and in spite of the sad occasion, the conversation flows, as does the laughter (especially as they get farther into the wine). By the time they finish the tiramisu he’s fully buzzed, and he’s sure Clarke is too, and he still has just enough control to resist the urge to reach across the table and take her hand and make some kind of ridiculous declaration.

 

“Home?” he asks.

 

“Yeah,” she says. “In my younger days I would have gone out and gotten into some hard liquor, but it’s probably best to call it a night.”

 

“Yeah, you’re so ancient at age twenty-six,” he says, and then he does reach for her hand, but just to help her up from the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

They decide to take a cab home, and it’s late by the time they’re standing on the front step, both reaching for their keys to unlock the door. Clarke starts giggling.

 

“What’s so funny?” he asks, nudging her arm aside to stick his key in the lock.

 

“You are,” she says as he opens the door.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, unable to contain a smile.

 

“You’re just… you,” she says, shrugging out of her coat and tossing it in the general direction of the coat rack.

 

“You missed,” Bellamy says as he catches her coat and hangs it on a peg.

 

It’s dark without the lights on. Clarke toes off her boots and stumbles slightly as she loses her balance, and he reaches out to steady her, his hand finding her upper arm. She straightens slowly and lifts her eyes to meet his, and before Bellamy knows what’s happening she’s rising up on her toes and capturing his lips with hers.

 

He’s shocked at first, his mind screaming _holy shit_  as he feels the softness of her mouth against his, and then his body catches up and he moves in response, his lips opening and his hand reaching to cradle her head and tilt it so the angle is perfect. He feels the release of her breath as her body relaxes into his touch and she slides her tongue along his, and the kiss becomes a back and forth as they move closer together.

 

Clarke pulls at him as she takes a step back and he steps forward until she’s backed up against the door. His free hand plants itself on the door next to her head and her hands reach to pull his body even closer to hers. His entire being is vibrating with joy and confusion and _holy shit, he’s kissing Clarke_ , and _she started it_ , and it’s heaven, except they’re both drunk, and she’s grieving…

 

“Clarke,” he whispers hoarsely when they break apart for air, his head hanging down so his mouth is close to her ear.  

 

“Shit,” she says, and that’s not what he wants to hear. “I didn’t—that wasn’t—“ she continues awkwardly.

 

“We’re drunk,” he says, backing away. “And we live together.”

 

“I didn’t mean to,” she says, and it’s like a dagger to his heart, even as he knows he needs to hear it, silencing the part of him that’s screaming _that was the best kiss of your life, dumbass._

“Let’s just forget it happened,” he hears himself saying, his voice coming out weird.

 

She swallows. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

 

“Oh my god, Clarke, don’t apologize,” he insists. “You’ve had a really intense day.”

 

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Um. I’m just going to go to bed now, I think.”

 

He watches, helpless, as she walks past him toward her room. She stops after a few steps and turns to face him partially. “Thanks again. For today.”

 

“Anytime,” he replies, repeating himself from earlier. There are so many other things he could, should say in that moment, but he can’t find the words.

 

She turns away again and disappears into the darkness.

 

_Well, you handled that poorly,_  he thinks to himself.

 

Bellamy wakes the next morning with a headache and a looming sense of regret. He doesn't regret the kiss itself—no, that had been amazing, and he feels a leap in his stomach and flow of blood to his groin just thinking about it. What he regrets is what happened after the kiss. Clarke had clearly only kissed him because she'd been drunk—she'd flat out admitted she hadn't even meant it. He's not sure what he could have said or done to change that, he just knows he's not happy with the end result.

 

He has to go to work, so he takes some ibuprofen and goes about his usual morning routine. Like clockwork, Clarke emerges from her room right as he's pouring his coffee to go, and he feels a rush of awkwardness.

 

"How's your head?" he asks. "Because mine hurts."

 

Clarke groans and reaches for the coffee. "I don't feel great," she says. "But I'll survive."

 

She dumps milk and sugar into her mug and takes a sip before raising her face to make eye contact.

 

"Look, about last night..." she begins.

 

"Seriously, Clarke, don't worry about it," he says. "We can just pretend it never happened."

 

She blinks at him. "Um, okay," she says. 

 

"Okay," he agrees.

 

There's an awkward moment of silence before they both speak at once.

 

"I should get going," he says, at the same time Clarke says, "I should probably jump in the shower."

 

They both laugh and the tension is broken slightly, for which Bellamy is grateful.

 

"I'll see you later?" he asks.

 

"Yeah. Have a good day, Bellamy."

 

"You too, Clarke."

 

Things go mostly back to normal after that, with one exception: they're both weird about touching the other. Before, they'd gotten to a place where they were comfortable with casual, friendly contact, a hug or a touch, or getting slightly tangled up in each other on the couch while watching TV. But after the kiss, all contact seems fraught with tension. So they avoid it, which he definitely notices and is pretty sure she does too, but maybe it's a good idea if they're trying to move past the whole kiss thing. 

 

About a week after that night, Bellamy is in bed reading a book before he falls asleep when his phone starts buzzing on the bedside table. It's quite late—after midnight—and nobody typically calls him at this time of night, so his heart leaps in fear that something terrible has happened to Octavia.

 

He doesn't recognize the number, and he hits the screen quickly to answer.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Bellamy? This is David Miller," a voice says from the other end of the line.

 

"Hello sir," Bellamy says. "Is Mil—is Nathan okay?"

 

"Oh, yes, he's fine. I'm calling because there's been an incident at the museum. A theft. A Titian painting was taken from the Department of Conservation and Scientific Research earlier this evening," his boss explains.

 

"The _Venus and Adonis_?" Bellamy asks in shock.

 

"Yes, that's the one. I'm calling because you were the last guard signed into the video surveillance system and some footage is missing. We're trying to piece together what happened. I know it's late, but can you come down to the museum right now?"

 

"Of course," he replies. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

 

He pulls on a pair of jeans and a shirt and grabs his things before heading for Clarke’s room. He knocks and the opens the door, finding her already asleep.

 

"Clarke?" he calls softly. No response beyond soft snoring. He crosses the room to her bed, reaching down to gently shake her shoulder. It's the first time he's touched her since the kiss. "Clarke," he whispers. "Clarke, wake up."

 

"Hmmm?" she mumbles, coming to consciousness. "Bellamy? What's wrong? Is everything okay?"

 

"It's the Titian. _Venus and Adonis_. It's been stolen," he explains.

 

"What?" she exclaims, sitting up quickly. "You're kidding."

 

"I wish I was," Bellamy replies. "I just got a call from David Miller, head of security. It was taken from your department some time tonight. They're trying to piece together what happened."

 

"Oh my god," she says. "Oh my god, this is bad. This is really bad. That painting is priceless. Who would do such a thing?"

 

"I have no idea. I have to go to the museum now, apparently I was the last guard signed in to the video surveillance system and they want to talk to me."

 

Clarke swings her legs out of bed and stands up. "I'm coming with you."

 

"You don't have to," he says. “It’s late.”

 

"I do," she protests. "It was taken from my department. I have to help."

 

She shucks off her pajama bottoms and pulls on a pair of jeans, not caring that Bellamy is in the room while she changes. She spins away from him before pulling off her top, thankfully, and quickly maneuvers into a bra and t-shirt before turning back to him, looking prepared for anything.

 

“We can take my car,” she says. “Are you ready?”

 

The drive is quick in the middle of the night without traffic, and when they get to the museum they are escorted inside by a police officer who takes them back to the scene of the crime, where they find David Miller and a slew of other guards and police officers, along with Marcus Kane.

 

“Clarke, what are you doing here?” Kane asks, stepping forward as he sees them approaching.

 

“I heard about the theft and wanted to help,” she explains.

 

Kane looks between her and Bellamy. “And this is?”

 

“Bellamy Blake,” Bellamy says, extending his hand to Kane. “I’m a security guard here. Mr. Miller called and asked me to come down. What can we do?”

 

“Ah, Bellamy,” Mr. Miller says, turning away from the police officers he was talking to and walking over to them. “You made it. And you brought Clarke Griffin with you?”

 

“Yes,” Clarke explains to Mr. Miller. “Bellamy woke me up as soon as he got the news, and I came with him.”

 

“Well, we were going to talk to you in the morning anyway, Ms. Griffin, but since you’re here—“

 

“We’re going to need both of you to give your statements to the police,” Shumway says, stepping over and interrupting his boss. He looks at Bellamy and Clarke suspiciously. “I told you they were an item, sir,” he says to Mr. Miller.

 

“Thank you, Shumway,” Mr. Miller says, slightly dismissively. It’s clear he’s been here for a while and is feeling the exhaustion of the situation. He turns back to Bellamy and Clarke. “If you two don’t mind sitting down with the police and telling them what you know, it would be very helpful. Ms. Griffin, I understand you were involved in the restoration of the missing painting?”

 

“I was,” she responds. “We just finished it today, actually, and notified the curators that it was ready to be moved back to the gallery.”

 

Mr. Miller nods and mulls over the information. “There are a lot of things we’re trying to piece together. I’ll go tell the officers you’re available.”

 

“I’ll speak with you both after you’re done with the police, if that’s alright?” Kane asks, and they nod in affirmation before he walks away with Mr. Miller.

 

Shumway continues to eye them. “It’s interesting that you were the last person to access the video surveillance system, Blake,” he says before turning to Clarke. “And that you were one of the last people to touch the painting before it went missing.”

 

“Oh is it?” Clarke says sarcastically, and then her tone switches to full venom. “You’re an idiot if you suspect either one of us is involved in stealing that painting. We were at home all night. And we’re just roommates, by the way, so you can quit insinuating things to your boss.”

 

“We’ll keep your protests in mind, Ms. Griffin,” Shumway says with a cold smile on his face, and then walks away.

 

“God, what a creep,” Clarke says. “I can’t believe his nerve.”

 

“Clarke, calm down,” Bellamy says. “We know we didn’t do anything wrong. But it makes sense that they want to question us, given the situation. Let’s just give our statements and get it done with.”

 

She sighs. “Fine. I just can’t believe the painting is _gone_.”

 

“I know,” he says. “Let’s do what we can to help find it.”

 

They’re taken to separate offices in the museum where the police have gotten set up, and each questioned by a team of officers. Bellamy tells them what he knows, which is that he was on video surveillance duty that afternoon, filling in for Sterling, the guard who was usually on surveillance and who had called in sick. He’d signed in and out of the system like he always did when he was on surveillance, and he hadn’t done anything different than usual.

 

After work, he’d gone home and made dinner, and he and Clarke had watched two episodes of _Battlestar Galactica_ and gone to bed, where he’d read until he got the phone call. The police don’t seem suspicious of him in the same way that Shumway had, which is a relief, but they still take a long time to go through everything with him, and to ask him further questions about possible leads. By the time they’re done questioning him, it’s nearly 3am.

 

He walks out of the office to find Clarke with Marcus Kane. He wonders if she was with the police for as long as he was, or if they’ve been waiting for him.

 

“Hey,” he says. “All finished.”

 

“Me too,” she says.

 

“Thank you both for your assistance,” Kane says. “I know it’s quite late. If you’d like to have the day off tomorrow, please take it. Just keep your phones on, in case we need to call you about anything.”

 

“Thanks Marcus,” Clarke says.

 

“I wish we got to spend some time together under better circumstances, Clarke,” Kane continues, and Bellamy wonders if this is added stress for her, having to deal with her mother’s boyfriend in a situation like this.

 

If it is, she hides it well. “Tell my mother I’d be more open to having dinner with you guys if she’d pick less macabre occasions, and we’ll go from there,” she says smoothly. Kane’s brows shoot up in surprise at her words, and Bellamy can tell Clarke is pleased with the effect of her words.

 

“I’ll, uh, pass along the message,” Kane says, and then he nods at both of them and takes his leave.

 

They make their way outside to the car, and Bellamy feels the fatigue really starting to set in. Clarke, on the other hand, seems wired.

 

“Did the cops tell you what they know so far?” she asks as she drives them through the sleeping city.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “About how the surveillance for the entire museum is non-existent from nine to eleven PM? And how the alarms on the door to conservation and one specific exit were disarmed?”

 

“Exactly,” Clarke says. “It has to be an inside job.”

 

“You think so?” he asks.

 

“Think about it. We just completed the restoration on _Venus and Adonis_ today. Nobody knows that except people who work at the museum. This is an ideal time to steal the painting because it’s been restored but it’s not back in its frame yet, so it’s lighter and more transportable. And whoever did this would need access to the museum security system.”

 

Bellamy turns this all over in his head. It makes sense, as much as he hates to suspect anyone. And as much as movies and crime novels glamorize art thievery, the reality is that doesn’t happen very often. It makes more sense that it would be an inside job rather than a heist pulled off by professional criminals with the skills to do what Clarke has outlined.

 

“First thing in the morning, we’re calling Raven and Miller,” she says.

 

“You think they can help?”

 

“I know they can. Miller knows security systems and Raven can hack into anything—it’s part of why he hired her, right? I’d be surprised if Miller’s dad isn’t thinking the same thing. “

 

It turns out she’s right. After they get a few hours of sleep, they wake up to call their friends and discover that they’re already at the museum.

 

“My dad called us in to do some analysis he thinks the cops need backup on. We’re running some tests on the surveillance system now, to see if there’s anything fishy,” Miller says through the Bellamy’s phone, which he’s put on speaker.

 

“What’s Raven doing?” Clarke asks.

 

“Officially or unofficially?” Miller asks.

 

“Both,” Clarke replies.

 

“Officially I’ve just finished examining the disabled alarms,” Raven says. “Unofficially, I’m reading through the work email accounts of everyone who logged into the surveillance system over the past week. You have some seriously boring email, Blake.”

 

“I get all the porn sent to my personal account,” Bellamy snaps, too tired for teasing.

 

“You’d be surprised how stupid people are with their work emails,” Raven says.

 

“Let us know if you find anything suspicious, okay?” Clarke says.

 

“Are you guys running your own investigation or something?” Raven asks.

 

“We’re just trying to figure out what happened,” Clarke replies. “I have this gut feeling that the answer’s right in front of us, and since it’s like that painting got stolen right from under my nose I can’t just sit around and wait for the police to figure something out. For all we know some of them are in on it too, if the price is right.”

 

“Alright, gumshoe, I’ll keep you posted,” Raven says before she hangs up.

 

“You really want to catch these guys, don’t you,” Bellamy says as he makes coffee.

 

“Don’t you?” Clarke asks.

 

“I do,” he says. “I just didn’t realize how involved you wanted to get.”

 

“As involved as I have to be to solve this,” she says. “That painting, it’s like an extension of me at this point. Nearly two months of my life working on perfecting Venus’ ass and now it’s just gone? I can’t let that happen.”

 

“I hear you,” Bellamy says. “Whatever you need, I’ll help.”

 

“Thanks,” she says.

 

They don’t hear much before noon, which has both of them feeling anxious, and when Clarke’s phone finally rings, she pounces on it, answering on speaker.

 

“Tell me you have something, Raven,” she says.

 

“I might,” Raven replies. “Miller wants to update you first, though.”

 

“So it looks like someone programmed the surveillance system to shut off the cameras for two hours between the hours of nine and eleven,” Miller says. “Instead of footage being deleted, now we know it was never recorded in the first place. And we also figured out that whoever disabled those alarms did so with a manual override, which would require either upper level security clearance or intimate knowledge of this model of alarm.”

 

“It has to be someone inside,” Clarke says.

 

“That’s what it’s looking like,” Miller says.

 

“Raven, what do you have?” Clarke asks.

 

“I was going through the emails of a guy named Thomas Sterling, and it was mostly boring work stuff and stupid memes he sends back and forth with an Andrew Shumway, but there were two weird ones. Three days ago he got an email from a Diana Sydney that’s nothing but an address in a tiny town near Charleston, South Carolina followed by tomorrow’s date and the words ‘six AM.’ There’s that, and there’s a rental confirmation email for a van.”

 

“Oh my god,” Clarke says. “Diana Sydney is one of the senior curators. Why would she be emailing with Sterling? Do they know each other?”

 

“I have no idea,” Bellamy says. “But Sterling is the guy who called in sick yesterday. He’s the reason I was on surveillance duty.”

 

“Sydney is on vacation this week,” Clarke says. “I know this because she’s one of the people we notified about the painting being done, and I got her vacation reply message when I emailed her.”

 

“You think she could be involved in this?” Bellamy asks.

 

“It’s a possibility,” Clarke says. “I don’t know her very well, but she gives off a weird vibe, kind of like Shumway. Wait, you said Shumway and Sterling were sending stupid stuff to each other?”

 

“Yeah,” Raven says. “If you ever wonder what kinds of dudes lurk in the more questionable corners of Reddit, there’s your answer.”

 

“So Sterling and Shumway are connected, and Sterling is connected to Sydney, and Sydney is sending Sterling a time and place to be somewhere two days after painting goes missing, plus he just rented a van. I think we have to check this out,” Clarke declares.

 

“What do you mean?” Raven asks.

 

“I mean, I think we should drive to South Carolina and see what happens at that address at six AM tomorrow,” Clarke says, her eyes on Bellamy’s with a pleading look on her face. “Have you guys told anyone else about the email yet?”

 

“They didn’t authorize me to look at the emails, so no,” Raven says. “But if it’s incriminating, maybe we should.”

 

“Hold off for now,” Clarke says. “It could be nothing. But it also could be something.”

 

“They’re going to have us working here the rest of the day,” Miller says.

 

“I think you guys should stay and do what you were asked to do, and keep us posted,” Clarke tells them. “Bellamy and I will get on the road and see what we can find.”

 

“What if you don’t find anything?” Raven asks.

 

“Then I guess we’ll have an impromptu trip to Charleston,” Clarke replies.

 

“You’re crazy, you know that, Griffin?” Raven says.

 

“I’m determined,” Clarke says.

 

“Good luck you guys,” Raven tells them.

 

“You know that’s at least an eight hour drive, right?” Bellamy asks once they hang up the phone.

 

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “Are you in?”

 

“Of course I’m in,” Bellamy says.

 

“Sorry, I should have asked you instead of just assuming.”

 

“You kind of asked with your eyes,” he says, and she laughs. “And I told you I’d do this with you.”

 

“Thank you,” she says. “And I’m doing this for you, too. I don’t like how Shumway’s trying to cast suspicion on us. If we solve this, it clears both of our names.”

 

“You think he’s involved too?” Bellamy asks.

 

“I think he might be,” Clarke says. “There isn’t a direct tie yet besides his dumb shit with Sterling, but I definitely wouldn’t rule him out.”

 

“I guess we’ll see,” Bellamy says.

 

They quickly get a few things together for the road before heading back out to Clarke’s car. Leaving now will get them into the Charleston area around eight, and they make a plan to drive to the address from Sydney’s email first to see what the situation is like, and then find a place to sleep for the night before waking up early to head back for the six AM meeting time.

 

Bellamy is struck by how together Clarke is in this situation. From the moment she heard the painting was stolen, she’s been mobilized and driven to solve the problem. He’s never seen her in a crisis before, but he imagines this is just how she is when shit goes down. She makes him feel like everything is going to be okay, no matter what happens, which is remarkably comforting. And if he wasn’t completely distracted by the gravity of the situation, he’d also find her control of the situation a turn-on.

 

In the wake of their drunken kiss, Bellamy’s feelings for Clarke have intensified, and he knows it, but he doesn’t have any idea what to do about it. The week since the kiss had been bizarre and now they’ve been thrown into this crazy situation, chasing after a stolen a painting. After this is all over he knows he’ll have to figure some things out, because if things keep going the way they are now, he’s going to be stuck pining for his roommate, which is just suboptimal for all parties involved.

 

But for now they have things to do. The drive to South Carolina is long, and they take turns behind the wheel. Sometimes they talk, speculating about the stolen painting and the various people who might be involved, other times they listen to the radio. They’re able to be together in comfortable silence, which Bellamy appreciates about Clarke.

 

It’s nearly eight when they pull into the greater Charleston area. To get to the mystery address, Google Maps directs them around the city and they head another thirty minutes south. The roads get smaller and smaller until they’re winding along rural back roads with barely another vehicle in sight.

 

“I think we’re almost there,” Clarke whispers. Bellamy is driving and she’s peering anxiously out the window, looking for the house number. They appear to be in a neighborhood of houses on waterfront lots that face some kind of deep estuary. Many of the houses are dark, because they’re probably people’s vacation homes, and not many people are vacationing this time of year. 

 

“Why are you whispering? It’s not like anyone can hear us outside the car,” Bellamy says, slowing the car down.

 

“I don’t know,” Clarke replies, still in a whisper. “I feel like we’re spying, so it makes me want to be quiet.”

 

“We _are_  spying,” he says, his voice dropping too.

 

“I don’t see any lights on,” she observes. “But there is a car in the driveway.”

 

“Do you recognize it?” he asks.

 

“No, but it’s a Benz, and I know Sydney has expensive taste, so it could be hers. Do you think we should try to get closer and have a look around?”

 

“Hmm, that could be risky. We don’t want to tip anyone off,” he says.

 

“You’re right,” she replies. “Okay, let’s turn around up here and drive past slowly again, and then we should probably get out of here before someone notices us.”

 

Bellamy does as she says, and they both get as much of a look as they can in the dark.

 

“It’s kind of hard to tell, but based on what I’ve seen from some of these other houses, there’s probably a dock on the waterfront side,” he says.

 

“If they have the painting here, maybe they’re planning to put it on a boat? That’s probably the best way to smuggle a painting out of the reach of the authorities, to be honest,” Clarke replies.

 

“But why here?” Bellamy asks. “There’s plenty of water near Ark. This seems really out of the way.”

 

“Exactly,” Clarke says. “The police will be scouring the port and have the coast guard on alert in near Ark. But this is far enough out of the way that nobody will be looking for any unusual activity.”

 

“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. So what do we do until then?” He picks up speed again as they drive away.

 

“Did you see that motel a little ways back with the diner attached? Their vacancy sign was on. I was thinking we should see if they have some rooms and try and get some sleep, then wake up early tomorrow and head back.”

 

“Works for me.”

 

The motel is about fifteen minutes back down the road, and when they get there, a gum-chewing teenager at the front desk informs them in a deep southern drawl that there is exactly one room available, queen bed, no smoking.

 

“We’ll take it,” Clarke says, plunking her credit card down.

 

“Are you sure?” Bellamy asks her.

 

“What else are we going to do? We need to stay close, and it’s not like we don’t already live together,” she replies.

 

“Yeah but… do you have any cots?” he asks the teenager.

 

“Nope,” she replies, snapping her gum.

 

“Why is this place so booked up this time of year?” he continues out of curiosity.

 

“Lotta people rent by the week, if you know what I mean,” the teen replies.

 

“Thank you,” Clarke says, taking the key.

 

“Diner’s open ‘til ten,” the teen says, going back to her cell phone. “Call if y’all need anything.”

 

They decide to get some dinner first, and the diner has surprisingly good food, even if the motel itself has a bit of a _Psycho_ vibe to it. They make a more detailed plan for they morning: get up early, eat a quick breakfast, go park the car a reasonable distance from the house so they don’t get noticed, and sneak their way through the woods to the house in time to see who shows up at six.

 

They linger over pie in the diner until it closes and then head for the room. Sure enough, it has one queen bed and no couch, nor any other frills besides some cheap complimentary soap and an aging TV with free HBO.

 

“I can take the floor,” Bellamy offers.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Clarke says. “We’re adults here. We’ll survive if we share a bed.”

 

_Yeah, adults who made out a week ago and are now acting like it never happened_ , Bellamy thinks to himself. _Talk to me about survival when it’s over._

 

“Besides, we both need to get some rest if we’re going to be sharp in the morning,” she continues.

 

“Fair enough,” he says.

 

Neither of them had packed much, and while brushing his teeth he realizes he’ll be sleeping in his boxer-briefs and a t-shirt. He normally doesn’t wear the t-shirt, but sharing a bed makes him feel like wearing one more layer out of politeness, and self-preservation.

 

Clarke forgot her pajamas, so she strips down to her underwear and a t-shirt, pulling some move in which she is able to remove her bra without taking the shirt off. Bellamy averts his eyes the moment he notices the sway of her breasts beneath the shirt as she walks past him to use the bathroom, because that’s not helping anyone. After she’s done, she yanks back the covers and crawls into bed, and he does the same on his side. It’s all weirdly domestic.

 

“Do you want to watch something?” she asks as she plays with the TV remote.

 

“Too bad we don’t have  _Battlestar_ with us,” he replies.

 

“I know, I should have brought my computer, but it didn’t seem necessary for this expedition. We’re almost done with part one of season four, too, we could have made some headway. You’re the slowest person to binge watch a show with, by the way.”

 

“I wasn’t aware that we were binging,” he says.

 

“We’re not, because you only ever want to watch two episodes at a time. And it’s not like we’re watching every night. If I was watching on my own I would have been done weeks ago,” she laments.

 

“But you already know what happens. And watching more than two episodes at once is brain-melting, it’s nicer to pace it out. Besides, you get the pleasure of discussing each episode with your insightful roommate, who loves to ponder the human condition.”

 

Clarke shakes her head. “You are not a normal person. Binging on TV shows is like a cornerstone of our culture now.”

 

“You know how I feel about our culture now.”

 

“Yes, the decline and fall, etc etc.”

 

“We’ll finish it eventually. They’ll make it to Earth, Starbuck and Apollo will finally be together, everyone will ride off into the sunset.”

 

Clarke bursts out laughing. “Ha! You innocent creature.”

 

“What? Tell me I’m wrong,” he says.

 

“You made the rules: no spoilers, no matter how hard you beg,” she replies.

 

“Whatever,” he says. “Give me that remote, let’s see what kind of garbage we can find to lull ourselves to sleep.”

 

They channel surf for a little while before growing tired and turning off the TV. It takes Bellamy less time to fall asleep than he’d anticipated, thanks to the long drive and events of the past twenty-four hours. He dreams about nothing in particular, floating through unconsciousness until he drifts awake again in the early morning.

 

He’s engulfed in a cocoon of softness and warmth, surrounded by blankets and something—someone—else. At some point during the night he and Clarke must have both ended up in the middle of the bed, and from there they somehow got entangled in one another. He’s on his side, breathing into a cloud of blonde hair that’s tucked into his shoulder. Her arms are curled against his chest and one of her legs is trapped between his. His outer arm is slung across her waist and he can feel her breathing softly and evenly, still asleep.

 

He doesn’t move even as he gains full consciousness, because he doesn’t want to wake her, and because he’s also kind of stunned to find himself in this position. She’s in his arms in a way he doesn’t allow himself to imagine very often, and the smell and feel of her is overwhelming. His body reacts predictably, because it’s also a major turn-on to be tangled up in bed with Clarke, and if this were another situation, another universe maybe, he would wake her slowly and press her back into the mattress and… yeah, he needs to do something about this hard-on or it’s going to be really obvious.

 

He shifts slightly, thankful that their legs are touching from the knees down and not any higher, and the movement jostles her more than he means for it to and she starts to wake up. He feels her breaths deepening and her limbs moving as she comes awake, but she doesn’t move away from him. Instead, she makes a sleepy moaning sound that sends his blood straight south and pushes some of her hair out of her face, blinking slowly.

 

He looks down at her and her eyes find his as her vision comes into focus in the dim light from the parking lot outside. Her mouth opens slightly, but she doesn’t say anything. He can’t look away and it seems she can’t either, and his mind is a riot of emotions. A lock of hair falls back into her face and he reaches up, slowly and gently moving it and tucking it behind her ear, unable to resist letting his fingers graze down her jawline.

 

Her breath hitches, and he has no idea what to do next other than look at her mouth. She takes a deep breath and it seems like something is about to happen when a shrill ringing sound combined with buzzing screams from her phone on the bedside table and they jolt completely apart, jarred suddenly back into reality.

 

“Shit,” Clarke says as she sits up and reaches for her phone. “We have to get up.”

 

“That thing is loud,” is all he can come up with to say as he pulls the blanket into his lap.

 

“I turned up the volume so we wouldn’t sleep through it,” she explains.

 

“Effective,” he remarks, decidedly not mentioning that they were already awake before the thing went off.

 

“I’m just going to—can I use the bathroom first?” she asks as she clambers out of bed.

 

“Go for it,” he replies. Like the kiss, this is probably something to file away in the _pretend it never happened_ category. Fortunately, they have more pressing matters to worry about now, and Bellamy can push it out of his mind.

 

They get ready quickly and head for the diner to grab some food and coffee before they make their way back towards the mystery address. They drive a few houses past it and turn down a wooded driveway to park the car out of sight.

 

“I think we should stick to the woods,” Clarke says as they start making their way back to the house. “Once we get close we’ll look for a good spot to hide and watch.”

 

Bellamy agrees, and they creep through the wooded properties until they get close to the driveway with the Benz parked in it. Lucky for them, there’s a good-sized hedge to hide behind, and they settle in with a view of the driveway, house, and yard down to the water. There’s a light on inside the house this time, and they can see the outline of someone moving inside behind the curtains.

 

“What time is it?” Bellamy asks in a low whisper.

 

Clarke pulls up her sleeve and checks her watch. “Five til six,” she whispers back.

 

Just then a light from down by the water catches their attention.

 

“I knew it,” Clarke says. “It’s a boat.”

 

The boat pulls up to a dock at the end of the yard and a figure jumps off and heads up toward the house. The person is cloaked in darkness until a motion sensor light is triggered, revealing a familiar face.

 

“Shumway,” Bellamy breathes.

 

Shumway looks annoyed as he approaches the house, mag light in hand. The front door opens and Diana Sydney steps out.

 

“Jesus, Diana, didn’t you think to turn off those lights?” Shumway asks, irritated.

 

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Sydney replies icily. “You made it on time, I see, unlike the other night.”

 

“We got the thing out of there,” Shumway snaps. “You should be thanking me.”

 

“I’ll thank you when this is all over and the money is in hand, and not a minute before,” she snaps back.

 

“No love lost there,” Clarke says under her breath.

 

“Where’s the buyer?” Sydney asks.

 

“He’s on the boat. Says he wants to stay until he knows we actually have the painting here and to signal him when it’s here. Guy’s kind of a control freak, making me ride here with. Where’s Sterling and his buddy?” Shumway asks.

 

“I told him six AM sharp, right here. He should be arriving any second,” Sydney replies.

 

As if on cue, a pair of headlights turn into the driveway and a van makes its way toward the house. Sure enough, it’s Sterling in the driver’s seat. He and another guy get out of the cab and walk over to Shumway and Sydney.

 

“You made it,” Sydney says. “Everything went well with the transport?”

 

“Yeah,” Sterling says. “Painting’s all wrapped up in the back, packed just like the guy requested.”

 

“Excellent,” Sydney replies. “Shumway, give the buyer the signal. Sterling, unload the painting. Let’s make a deal.”

 

Shumway flashes the mag light at the boat while the other two men head for back of the van. After a moment, another person makes his way up from the docks. His brown hair is slicked back from his forehead and Bellamy thinks he has a distinctly snake-like quality to him.

 

“Hello, Diana,” the man says. “I hear you have a Titian for me.”

 

“I do indeed, Cage,” she says, gesturing to where Sterling and his pal are unloading a parcel. “Bring it over here, boys.”

 

“Let’s have a look-see,” the man—Cage—tells them, gesturing to the parcel.

 

Sterling pulls back the wrapping and soon Venus’ milky skin is visible in the driveway light. Bellamy hears Clarke draw a shaky breath as she lays eyes on the painting she’d worked so hard on.

 

“Yes, yes, that’s the one,” Cage muses as he inspects the painting. “Another piece for my father’s collection. I’m so glad you contacted me about this… opportunity, Diana.”

 

“I do try and keep an eye out for this kind of thing,” she says smugly. “I know how much your father loves original masterworks.”

 

“I’ll notify him now that he can go ahead with the bank transfer to your offshore account,” Cage says, tapping briefly on his phone, and then he turns to Sterling. “You can go ahead and pack that back up now.”

 

“Bank transfer?” Shumway interjects. “I thought this was a cash deal.”

 

“We decided it was more prudent to keep things electronic,” Sydney explains. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your cut.”

 

Shumway doesn’t look completely mollified, but he shuts his mouth.

 

“What happens now?” Sydney asks.

 

“Your henchmen can carry that down to my boat once they’ve finished repacking it,” Cage says. “From there, we sail to my father’s villa in the Florida Keys, he’s happy, and you’re millions of dollars richer.”

 

Much to Bellamy’s surprise, Clarke springs up and out of the hedge at that moment, and strides out into the driveway.

 

“Stop right there,” she calls out. “None of that’s going to happen.”

 

The people gathered around the painting in the driveway freeze in shock until Shumway starts shaking his head.

 

“I should have known you’d show up,” he sneers.

 

“That painting is stolen property,” Clarke declares.

 

“Obviously,” Cage says. “And who are you, to be interrupting us?”

 

“I restored that painting,” is all she says.

 

“She works at the museum,” Sydney says angrily.

 

“What part of ‘as few people involved as possible’ don’t you understand?” Cage asks through his teeth.

 

“I don’t know how she ended up here,” Sydney protests.

 

“Next time you plot a major art theft, try to avoid sending key details through your _work email_ ,” Clarke says.

 

“What? I wouldn’t—I didn’t—“ Diana sputters, flustered.

 

Cage sighs. “Amateurs,” he mutters. “Diana, you assured me this would be carried out properly.”

 

“There’s nothing this little girl can do to stop us,” Sydney says.

 

“She’s a risk,” Cage says.

 

The moment Bellamy sees Cage reach beneath the hem of his shirt, he knows Cage has a gun. Bellamy’s instincts kick in, and he moves quickly out of the bushes. Cage notices him and begins to pull out the gun, but Bellamy is fast enough swing his arm into Cage’s and the gun drops to the ground. He then kicks one of his legs into Cage’s and lays the other man flat out on the pavement—head hitting hard enough to knock him unconscious—before anyone else can make a move.

 

Shumway is the first of the others to react.

 

“You’re here too? Who do you guys think you are, Mulder and Scully?” he says condescendingly.

 

“Only if you’re an alien from Planet Dumbass, which I strongly suspect you are,” Clarke snaps at him.

 

Shumway raises the mag light in his hand like a weapon and rushes at Clarke, but Bellamy hits his arm just like he hit Cage’s, and the mag light goes flying. Shumway moves before Bellamy can take out his legs, however, and he swings at Bellamy, landing a blow on the side of his head. Bellamy hits back, vaguely aware of the flash of Clarke’s hair as she dives for something. He’s not sure what it is until she comes up behind Shumway and hits him over the head with the mag light, and Shumway slumps to the ground.

 

She and Bellamy stare at one another for a second, and he hopes she has a plan for what to do next, because these guys won’t be out forever. She simply nods at him, and then they hear a clicking noise.

 

“Don’t move,” Sterling says, pointing Cage’s gun at Clarke. “Stay where you are, or I’ll shoot her.”

 

The bottom of Bellamy’s stomach drops out at the sight of Clarke in danger, but he can’t do anything, because he doesn’t know how trigger-happy Sterling is. Sterling’s friend, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to shit his pants.

 

“Looks like your little save-the-day plot is coming to an end,” Sydney snarls.

 

“Looks like your buyer is still unconscious,” Clarke replies coolly. “How’s he going to sail that boat?”

 

Sydney is currently crouched on the ground trying to wake up both Cage and Shumway, and she glares at Clarke before getting back to the men.

 

Bellamy shifts on his feet, itching to get closer to Clarke.

 

“I said don’t move!” Sterling shouts, point the gun with urgency. He has a crazy look in his eyes that fills Bellamy with dread.

 

They appear to be at a stand-still until all of a sudden three cars turns into the driveway and pull onto the lawn.

 

“Stop! Police!” someone shouts as people begin to emerge from the vehicles.

 

Sterling’s head whips around at the interruption and Bellamy sees his chance. He swiftly gets to Sterling and knocks the gun from his hand, after which he twists Sterling’s arm behind his back and holds him in place. Clarke’s entire body sags in relief as she blinks at Bellamy, the whole world seemingly held in her eyes.

 

“Are you Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake?” one of the officers asks as she approaches the scene.

 

“Yes,” Clarke replies.

 

“We heard you might be here,” she says. “Don’t worry, we’re here now. This painting isn’t going anywhere but back to the museum it belongs in.”

 

Everything happens quickly after that. The cops swarm the lawn and take control of the situation, putting cuffs on the criminals and loading them into the backs of the cruisers. A special team arrives to deal with the painting, which Clarke is relieved about.

 

They’re both asked to give their statements to the police, which takes a little while. Bellamy learns that the police had been notified about the situation by the authorities in Ark early this morning when the team there had discovered the incriminating emails—nearly eighteen hours after Raven had figured it out.

 

“It’s a good thing you guys were here,” one of the officers tells Bellamy. “From the looks of it, we would have missed the boat altogether—literally—if you hadn’t been here to hold things up.”

 

Bellamy looks over at Clarke, who’s finishing up with her own statement. “It was all her idea,” he says.

 

The officer smiles at him. “Strong-minded female, huh? You both did good.”

 

After the police are done with them, the local media shows up, and Bellamy and Clarke find themselves talking to reporters on and off camera. It’s several hours before things calm down enough that they’re free to go, and they make their way down the road back to where they’d parked the car early that morning. It’s the first time they’ve had to actually talk to one another one-on-one since the action started.

 

“So, those moves you pulled back there,” Clarke as they reach the car. “Was that your secret martial arts background coming out to play?”

 

Bellamy shrugs. “Something like that,” he says. “It’s nothing to write my old Jiu-jitsu teacher about, but it did the trick.”

 

“It saved us. You saved my life, Bellamy,” she says.

 

“The cops showing up when they did definitely helped,” he replies, ducking his head.

 

“Hey, listen to me,” she says, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I know you don’t like to take credit for things, but you took out Cage and Shumway, and you got the gun away from Sterling. That’s badass. All I did was storm in there and hope for the best.”

 

“That looked pretty badass to me,” he tells her, “even if I wasn’t sure what kind of plan you had.”

 

She grimaces. “Sometimes I just go with my gut and figure it out later, and this was one of those times.”

 

“We did it, Clarke. We saved the painting.”

 

She lets a smile stretch across her face, lighting up in a way that sparks something inside him, too.

 

“We did. You’re a good partner in fighting crime. We should work together more often.”

 

“Oh, you think we should go after art thieves on a regular basis?” he asks with a laugh. “Then I hope all of them are as bad at their jobs as this crew.”

 

“Yeah, these guys were pretty terrible at it. That reminds me, we should call Raven and Miller and give them an update. They probably know already, but they deserve to hear the story from our perspective.”

 

“Have you checked your phone at all since this started? I’m guessing we probably have a lot of missed calls.”

 

He’s right. They decide to check their messages once they’re on the road, with Bellamy driving and Clarke going through both of their phones to see the missed calls from Raven and Miller, as well as Kane and David Miller, and even her mother. They call Raven first, and Raven tells them that the police had finally had the bright idea to go through employee emails, finding out exactly what she had. She’d told police that the two of them might already be at the address at the designated time, and to look out for them if they raided the place.

 

Clarke is on the phone for a while explaining everything to various parties, with Bellamy chiming in when needed, and by the time they’ve spoken to everyone they need to speak to, they’re well on their way back to Ark. Having accomplished their goal, the drive home is much lighter, and they’re able to talk about things other than stolen art. Clarke turns the radio up when songs she particularly loves come on, and Bellamy thinks he wouldn’t mind driving all over the country with her.

 

The time seems to fly, and before they know it, they’re pulling into their driveway, their whirlwind journey at an end. They unload the few things they have and head inside, with nothing to do now that their goal has been accomplished.

 

“Marcus wants us to come in tomorrow so he can officially go through what happened with us,” Clarke says once they’re inside, standing in the kitchen.

 

“Okay,” Bellamy says.

 

“What do we do now?” she asks.

 

“I don’t know,” he replies. “It’s dinnertime, but we ate on the road not too long ago.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I just feel kind of at a loss after all that action.”

 

“I’m going to start by taking a shower,” he says. “And then maybe we can watch some _Battlestar_?”

 

“Sure,” Clarke says. Her brow is slightly furrowed as she makes her way to her room, and Bellamy isn’t sure how to handle her current mood, so he just heads for his own room to carry out the showering plan.

 

He tosses his bag onto the bed and has just pulled off his shirt when he hears a voice say “Screw it,” and the door to his room opens. Clarke walks in with a determined look on her face and doesn’t stop until she’s standing right in front of him.

 

“You,” she says, and she reaches out and pokes him in the chest.

 

“Ow,” he says, even though it doesn’t hurt that much. He’s just surprised. “What did I do?”

 

“You almost kissed me this morning,” she says, poking him again.

 

His heart leaps into his throat. “I—“ he croaks, unable to finish his sentence.

 

“And I almost kissed you, until that stupid alarm went off,” she continues.

 

“What?”

 

Clarke sighs, her finger relaxing so her hand simply rests against his bare skin. “I told myself I was going to come in here and figure out exactly what to say while saying it, but that’s kind of backfiring.”

 

“Clarke,” he says softly, his eyes searching hers as his heart rate increases.

 

“I don’t want to pretend like nothing happened,” she says. “I had a gun pointed at me today, and it put some things into perspective. I’m afraid if I don’t say something, then we’ll just do what we did after I kissed you last week and—that’s not what I want, Bellamy.”

 

Bellamy feels something start to unfold inside him, something he’s been keeping locked up. “What do you want?” he asks, his voice coming out hoarse.

 

“You,” she says, and then she leans up and kisses him. He groans against her mouth and pulls her into his arms, kissing her back with the passion he’s been keeping leashed, dizzy with relief at her words, relief at finally having somewhere to channel all that he’s been feeling.

 

Clarke’s hands glide over his bare skin and their tongues slide hotly against each other, and she’s giving him everything he didn’t realize—didn’t want to admit—that he needed. She removes her hands and pulls back briefly to tug her own shirt over her head, and suddenly she’s standing in front of him in her bra. He stares at her for a moment and grins wickedly before pulling her to him again, his hands sliding up her back to find the clasp as he captures her mouth with his.

 

Soon they’re both topless, skin to skin, and he’s exploring the spot below her right ear when he pauses.

 

“Wait, should we talk about this first?” he whispers, and he feels her chuckle against his hair, in which her fingers are currently tangled.

 

“I want to fuck you now and talk later,” she says in a husky voice, and he’s simply gone after that, teeth nipping at her delicate skin until she shivers.

 

He backs her up until her legs hit his bed and lowers her to mattress, her hair spilling across the blanket and her breasts bared to him. He reaches down and palms them, thrilled at how, even as thought they’re quite full, they still fit perfectly in his hands. He squeezes them together and leans down to capture a nipple in his mouth, suckling until it peaks perfectly, and then lavishing the same attention on the other.

 

Clarke moans beneath him, her hands still in his hair, until she drags his mouth back up to hers and pulls him on top of her, her thighs opening to create the perfect space for him. They both still have their pants on, and he feels her hands reaching for his belt buckle and grazing over the hardness beneath his fly, causing him to break free from the kiss and whisper her name harshly.

 

“I want to hear you scream my name,” she says as she undoes his pants and reaches her hand inside to grasp him.

 

“Damn, girl,” he says as she gives him a squeeze. “I wondered if you’d be this feisty in bed.”

 

“So you’ve thought about this,” she says as she gives him another stroke.

 

He can’t help but laugh, which comes out breathless, given the attention his cock is currently getting. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”

 

“Good,” she purrs as she pushes at his waistband, and he has to straighten slightly so he can fully remove his pants and his underwear.

 

Clarke smiles and bites her lip in anticipation as she watches his cock spring free and god, he is so gone for this girl, and he has never been more turned on in his life. She reaches for him again but he pushes her back and leans down to give both of her nipples a tug with his mouth before kissing his way down her stomach to the waistband of her jeans. He undoes the fly and pulls the jeans down so he can see her black panties, kissing her mound through them before hooking his thumbs under the elastic and yanking her panties and jeans over her thighs and off.

 

Once she’s free of those, he kneels on the floor in front of her and spreads her thighs so she’s open before him like a flower. He kisses her inner thighs and he hears her swear, which he takes as a sign to keep going. He makes his way to her core and uses his hand to rub her gently at first, before finally putting his mouth on her.

 

He’s not sure who moans loader at the contact, but they’re both into it, to say the least. She tastes better than he imagined and he uses his hands and mouth to pleasure her, her legs hooked over his shoulders, until she’s writhing beneath him. He knows he’s found the right combination of fingers inside her and mouth on her clit when she moves with him in a rhythm until she tumbles over the edge and shouts his name as comes, hard.

 

“Who’s screaming whose name?” he asks as he slides his way up her body afterwards, lying on his side next to her so he can watch her come down from her high.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Blake,” she says as she catches her breath. “I suspected those hands were capable, but Jesus fuck.”

 

“I don’t think Jesus ever did any fucking,” Bellamy says through a grin. “At least not in the King James version.”

 

“Says the man who has read the bible as a ‘literary work,’” Clarke giggles, her eyes fluttering open. “But we are definitely going to fuck, right now. Please tell me you have a condom?”

 

“Yes,” he says, getting up to locate the box. He returns with the packet and Clarke takes it from him, tearing it open and sliding the condom on. He’s ridiculously sensitive after getting turned on by the process of going down on her, and he has to reign himself in a bit. He’s glad he’s already gotten her off once because he’s pretty sure he won’t last very long.

 

“How do you want me?” he asks, finding her eyes again.

 

“So many different ways,” she replies. “But there’s time for all of that later. For now, I think I just want you the old fashioned way.”

 

She pulls on his shoulder until he gets the message and settles between her thighs, planting his arms on either side of her. She reaches down to guide him to her entrance and tilts her hips up so the angle is right, and he pushes forward until he feels himself slipping inside. Her inner muscles grip at the head of cock and she tilts her hips up more until he surges forward and he’s buried fully within her, both of them crying out in pleasure.

 

It’s pure bliss, and he takes a moment to bask in the feel of her surrounding him before he starts to move. She moves with him, her hands roaming over his back until they settle on his ass, pulling him as deep as she can. He leans down to kiss her, and there is something so tender in that moment, an intimacy he has never felt before, that he is nearly overwhelmed by it all.

 

They kiss passionately as he continues to thrust into her, and then he kisses his way down her neck and uses one of his hands to grasp her breast and bring her nipple to his lips. She cries out as he bites the hardened peak gently and then goes to work on her other breast, all the while still moving with her. When he leans back, the sight of her lush breasts bouncing with his every thrust triggers a tingling in his balls that he knows means the end is near.

 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he says, thrusting harder as his body takes over with an urgency slipping beyond his control.

 

“So am I,” Clarke says in a trembling voice, her hips joining his in the urgency.

 

He thrusts three more times before he hits oblivion, his orgasm ripping through him and into her, and he yells her name—okay, she’s right, it’s a scream—as her walls clamp down around his cock, milking every last pulse until he slumps forward, completely spent.

 

Her hands continue to graze over his back until he rolls off of her, pulling out carefully. He has to breathe for a moment before he has the wherewithal to remove the condom and tie it off, after which he tosses it onto the floor to be dealt with later. He doesn’t have the energy to find the trash can. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything but roll back over to Clarke and pull her until she rests her head and arm on his chest and they recover together.

 

She shivers after a few minutes, inspiring him to finally move.

 

“Want to get under the covers?” he asks.

 

“Yes please,” she says.

 

They crawl under the blankets and get settled comfortably, and now that Bellamy’s heart rate has returned to normal his mind starts racing. But it’s a good kind of racing, because she’d instigated this. She wanted him. And she wants more of him, if he’s reading her correctly.

 

“Just so we’re clear, you said you want to do that a lot of different ways, right?” he says, kind of joking but also not because he needs to know what’s going on inside her head right now.

 

“So many ways,” she says, kissing his chest and then resting her head in her palm so she can see him. “I want you, Bellamy. I want this. Us.”

 

“You do?” he says, and he can’t keep the surprise from his voice, because this is still really new to him.

 

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks.

 

“No,” he says. “After we kissed last week I was sure it was some kind of weird accident and you thought you’d a some dumb mistake.”

 

“But _I_ kissed _you_!” she says insistently, and then sighs. “I thought I was being clear. But I guess I was pretty tipsy. And, well, it’s never easy to admit you have feelings for someone. But I was sure you were mortified and wanted to pretend it never happened.”

 

“Only because I thought that’s what you wanted,” he replies. “You did say you didn’t mean to do it.”

 

“God, I totally said that, didn’t I,” she says, shaking her head. “I think it’s safe to say we both fumbled it.”

 

“That we did,” he agrees, and then he shifts so he’s propped up on one elbow. “Clarke, you have no idea how long I’ve been trying to solve the problem of living with someone I have feelings for. Google doesn’t yield great results for that question.”

 

Clarke laughs. “Yeah, I wasn’t coming up with any great answers either. How long has it been for you?”

 

“An embarrassingly long time. Pretty much since I started really getting to know you. Being friends. I mean, I thought you were hot before that, but I don’t know, we started actually talking and—you know I don’t make friends easily. So at first I thought it was just feeling weird because I’d forgotten what friendship was like. And then one day I just knew I was fucked,” he tells her.

 

Here eyes widen as she takes in the information.

 

“How long has it been for you?” he asks.

 

“A long time,” she says. “I suspected I had feelings before the party, but that night—the first night we really talked—after that night I _knew_. And I was terrified. That’s why I started going on all those dates.”

 

“Really?” he asks. “You could have avoided all those dates and just jumped my bones right then and there and I would have been completely on board.”

 

“I’m just realizing that now,” she says, touching his chest playfully and then grabbing his hand in hers. “I was pretty scared. It was big for me, to feel for someone again. Plus we’re roommates, which seemed like a huge risk. Like what if we slept together and then it didn’t turn into a thing? Then it would be so awkward, living together.”

 

“So you dated other people,” he says.

 

“I figured if I dated other people it would help me avoid that whole problem. Maybe it was just lust or something I could get over and it wouldn’t be an issue. I’m pretty sure Raven saw completely through that façade but she encouraged me to get out there anyway.”

 

“Remind me to yell at Raven the next time I see her,” Bellamy says.  

 

“I’m actually kind of glad I did it, in the end,” Clarke says thoughtfully. “I really did need to get back on the horse. And it also saved you from being my rebound. Rebound plus roommate is like two red flags in one.”

 

“Yeah, that seems like a bad combination. From my end, though, you dating other people sucked. I was stupid jealous,” he admits.

 

“You didn’t seem very jealous,” she said. “You got more ass than I did and I was the one actually trying to date.”

 

“I did it because I was trying to pretend I wasn’t jealous of all these people you were going out with. And because I wanted to avoid the house in case you brought someone home. Once I figured out you weren’t bringing any of them home I pretty much stopped going to the bars. And by that point I’d also admitted to myself I was into you for real, anyway, so doing anything with anyone else felt pretty dishonest.”

 

She twines her fingers with his. “So you’re into me for real,” she says.

 

“Yeah,” he replies. “I am.”

 

“Good,” she says, pulling his hand to her mouth and kissing the back of it. “Because I’m into you for real, too.”

 

Bellamy’s heart swells to a size he didn’t know was possible. “I have to be honest with you,” he says. “I don’t have much experience with this kind of thing.”

 

“Are you sure? Because your cunnilingus skills say otherwise,” she says.

 

He laughs. “No, I mean with real feelings. I had to grow up pretty young, but somehow in all that I missed having any real relationships. You’re the first person I’ve ever wanted anything like this with.”

 

Clarke beams and kisses his hand again. “Then that’s what matters. What came before, your past and mine, that’s not as important as the present. And whatever we become going forward.”

 

“So what do we do now? We’re still roommates. Is that still a red flag?”

 

“Well, there’s always the risk it doesn’t work out and it’s terribly awkward, but if we both think this is real, then it’s real. It’s not like we’re some couple deciding to move into together super early in our relationship. We just happen to already live together. And,” she says, smiling shyly, “I really like living with you. You’re a way better cook than I am.”

 

“I really like living with you too,” he says, laughing before pulling her in for a real kiss.

 

“So we’re doing this?” she asks after a moment.

 

“Looks like it,” he replies, and then the kissing becomes too intense for much more talking.

 

He never moves back out.

 

_The End_


End file.
